#four horrible single men raise a gifted child

[crowbarsolo]

Replacement Parts

Title: Replacement Parts

Fandom: One Piece

Rating: T

Content warnings: loss of a pet, self-surgery

Characters: Franky, Queen the Plague (Saien), Caesar, Judge, Sanji, Strawhat Pirates

Ship: none (platonic Franky and Queen)

Prompt used : Reopening an Old Wound

Summary: A glimpse of Franky's childhood with the mad scientist he once called his father; what he took from Queen and what he left behind.

Excerpt:

Franky had a dog called Test Subject. Caesar had purchased the dog to use in one of his experiments but, as was often the case, he’d gotten attached to her, putting off her vivisection, day after day, until it had become something of an inside joke. “Gotta fatten you up for the big day,” Saien would say as he fed her scraps at mealtimes. “A lady always knows how to dress for special occasions,” Judge would say as he tied ribbons around her neck.

“I don’t get why they can’t just provide us with human test subjects,” Caesar complained. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of people.”

The dog, who’d been called “the Test Subject” so often by the scientists that she’d stopped responding to any other name, wasn’t a pet in the proper sense of the word. She slept under furniture and ate whatever she could charm or steal from people’s plates and disappeared for hours and sometimes even days whenever the Laboratory for Peace docked, although she’d always come back right in the nick of time as they prepared to leave. Test Subject had already been old when she’d been adopted, and one day Franky found her lying still on her side with her mouth gaping wide open and her skin grown cold.

Franky bawled for two days straight. No amount of cola, magic tricks or firecrackers could comfort him. Vegapunk, on the edge of a scientific breakthrough, had locked himself in his lab and remained blissfully oblivious, but Caesar and Judge were on the edge of a nervous breakdown. “I swear to God, Saien, I’ll throw this punk overboard if you don’t shut him up.”

“Half-tempted to do it myself,” Franky’s father muttered. “Alright, kid. Come and give me a hand.” With these words, he’d invited Franky for the first time into his sanctuary. 

Saien’s laboratory, like his room, was overrun with an exuberant chaos. The walls were stained with soot and diesel. A submarine shaped like a plesiosaurus sat in one corner next to a life-sized robotic T-Rex. Discarded appliances and unfinished devices colonized every empty space on the counters and the floor, aside from the chemistry station, which was pristine. Saien ran his arm across a table, knocking over dozens of tubes and gears, and dumped the old toaster he was holding in the empty space he’d created. “There’s a toolbox underneath the hand-washing station. Go grab it for me.”

Franky obeyed. His father selected a pair of pliers from the box and used them to pry open the toaster’s cord, exposing its coloured metallic entrails. “All man-made things carry within them an irresistible urge to explode,” he said as he worked. “Everything, from the lowly toaster to the majestic bazooka, will blow up in the most spectacular way possible as soon as it’s given the chance. It’s our job as inventors to delay the explosion for as long as we can. Or harness it for our own purposes, as the case may be! Speaking of toasters, we’re gonna give this one a Viking funeral. Put on your goggles, kid.”

He flicked a switch. The toaster came to life with a shudder and hopped up and down on its feet, as if it had an urgent message to share. Then, with an increasingly shrill whistle that culminated into a screech, it exploded. Springs, coils, panels and grids struck the walls of the laboratory like missiles. When the smoke had cleared, Franky looked down at his hands, which were covered with soot, and realized that he was no longer crying.

“It’s the way of all things, whether born or made,” his father said. “We all carry in us the seeds of our own destruction. You all done now? Go look around the lab, see if you can find any pieces that survived the impact. We’re gonna use ‘em to make a cannon.”

[etirabys]

I read about a very cute and strange online marriage match in Age of Ambition. Before I jump into how they met, let me introduce one half of the couple, a woman named Gong Haiyan (born Hainan) – she was very entrepreneurial as a child and ended up founding a very popular e-dating service right when China was starting to use the internet. (While writing this post I discovered this particular chapter was also a New Yorker article.)

Gong Hainan was born at the foot of a mountain in the village of Waduangang, in Hunan, the home province of Chairman Mao. Her parents met under benighted circumstances. During the Cultural Revolution, they were paired with each other because they shared a political affliction: their families had been classified as “well-off peasants.” A village matchmaker put them together. Gong’s family raised peanuts and cotton and chickens and pigs. 

...

When her neighbors began to open tiny businesses, Gong badgered her parents to let her join the trend. They laughed. “We have three neighbors, and a mountain behind us. Who is going to shop here?” they asked. Undeterred, Gong enlisted her little brother, Haibin, into a business proposition: They would buy ice pops and resell them door-to-door. After one day of lugging a thirty-pound Styrofoam cooler around the rutted village paths, her brother quit. “I could’ve beaten him half to death and he wouldn’t go out again,” she said. But Gong made a map of the village that identified which parents were known to cave in to their kids’ demands, and she charted the optimal route. Soon she was selling two boxes a day. “Whatever you’re doing,” she concluded, “you have to be strategic.” 

(I freaking love this kid)

When Gong was sixteen, her test scores earned her a place at the top local high school, a transformative moment for a farming family. Shortly before school was to start, she was riding into town on a tractor-taxi, on her way to restock her ice pop supply, when the tractor plunged into a ditch. The other passengers were thrown clear, but she had been sitting on the front bench. Her right leg was crushed, and her nose was nearly severed. She would recover, but when she got out of the hospital, wearing a hip cast, she discovered that a rural school could not accommodate a student unable to walk. The school suggested she withdraw.

Gong’s mother, Jiang Xiaoyuan, would have none of it. She moved into the dorm and carried her daughter on her back—up and down the stairs to the classrooms, back and forth to the toilet. (Gong trained herself to use the bathroom no more than twice a day.) While Gong was in class, her mother hustled outside to the street to sell fruit from baskets to make extra money. I wondered if the story was a metaphor, until I met her mother. “There was one especially tall building, the laboratory, and her class was up on the fourth floor,” Jiang said, scowling at the memory of it. Gong had never seriously considered an alternative. “School was the only way out,” Jiang told me. “We never wanted for her to work in the fields like us.”

For some reason she ends up dropping out to work in a factory in a big town, does as well as she can as a migrant for a few years, but changes her mind when it becomes apparent how limited migrants’ opportunities are, and re-enrolls in school.

She had to get to a city. She said, “I decided to go back to school.” “Everyone in the village was against the idea,” she went on. “They said, ‘You’re a twenty-one-year-old woman. Go and get married!’” In the village hierarchy, the only person who ranked lower than a young woman was a young woman who had something better in mind for her future. But her parents supported her decision, and the school allowed her to reenroll in the eleventh grade. She scored the highest rank in the county on the national college entrance test, and earned a coveted spot at Peking University[, eventually gets a master's degree in journalism]

(I’m so emotional about her parents, guys, I actually teared up in the restaurant I was reading this in. Good job for supporting your incredibly talented motivated daughter in a social milieu where that’s not a normal thing to do!)

Then she founds her e-dating service. It was so popular she got profiles snailmailed in from rural hopefuls who wanted to join.

Gong was nothing like the other Web entrepreneurs I knew in China. For one thing, the top ranks of Chinese technology were dominated by men. And unlike others who glimpsed the potential of the Internet in China, she didn’t speak fluent English. She didn’t even have a degree in computer science. She still had a trace of the countryside about her. She spoke at high volume, except before crowds, when her voice trembled. She was five feet three, still with narrow shoulders, and when she talked about her business, I got the feeling that she was talking about herself. “We’re not like you foreigners, who make friends easily in a bar or go traveling and chat up a stranger,” she told me. “This is not about messing around for fun. Our membership has a very clear goal: to get married.”

That was a bit of background but hopefully it was worth it – she’s an extraordinary woman. She finds her husband on the dating service she founded, and it’s just so dense with hilarious detail –

(Guo’s posting reads as absurdly, bare-facedly picky to me, but the book lists other examples of postings on that dating website, and his criteria and phrasing are not at all atypical for Chinese men and women using the service.)

Not long after Gong Haiyan launched her business, a posting caught her eye: “Seeking a wife, 1.62 meters tall, above-average looks, graduate degree.”

The seeker was a postdoc, studying fruit flies. He liked to exercise, and he attached a jokey photograph of himself flexing his triceps in front of his lab bench. “He had the whole package,” Gong told me. Then she looked at his requirements and discovered, “I didn’t meet a single one.” She decided to answer him anyway, in a pose of high confidence. “Your announcement is not well written,” she wrote. “Even if someone meets all those requirements, she’ll think you’re picky.”

The man’s name was Guo Jianzeng, and he was embarrassed. “I’ve never written anything like this, and I don’t quite know what I’m doing,” he replied. Gong volunteered to polish his announcement. “After polishing,” she told me, “I could think of exactly four girls in the world who met the criteria, including me.”

GET HIM, GONG HAIYAN

Guo Jianzeng was thirty-three and shy. When they met, his phone had eight numbers stored in it. He was not a born romantic—his first gift to her was a replacement for a pair of broken spectacles—and he was not rich; he had less than four thousand dollars to his name. But Gong asked him to take an IQ test. She was surprised when he beat her score by five points. She was also moved by the way he cared for his widowed father. On their second date, he proposed marriage to her on the subway.

She rode sidesaddle on the back of his bicycle to the Ministry of Civil Affairs, where they paid nine yuan for a marriage certificate. The ceremony took ten minutes. Instead of a wedding ring, he bought her a laptop.

Nerds! Smart weirdos in a culture that I find alien (and sometimes horrible), doing recognizable smart weirdo things!

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: As Lightning to the Children eased [Chapter 1/3] Summary: Anakin Skywalker was the son of the Force and in this universe the primordial power flowing through everything stayed to guide him. A Fix-it discussing how terrifying a half-mortal child should be. AN: I wrote about eldritch Anakin and decided to elaborate on that.

READ ON AO3.

Shmi had always been able to feel other people’s presence and it was only due to that ability that she had survived as long and as well as she had. She could be dead twice over, her body broken to no repair, but Shmi was still standing, her eyes averted, but alive. She could always tell when she needed to disappear into the shadows to avoid a beating, or when to step out of them so she’d make it to the next day.

And then, one morning, she woke up to find her own presence changed. She threw up the meager content of her empty stomach until she was heaving up acid.

No, no, no, no, she thought, screamed as loudly as she was allowed to. The other slaves in the quarter believed her to have finally broken, snapped like a cord stretched too far.

But Shmi’s mind was clear, or at least all she could remember was. She didn’t have any gaps in her memories and all the other slaves reassured her that she’d slept well through the night.

Everything in her screamed that they were speaking the truth, that nobody had stolen her away and forced themselves upon her, but there was no other possibility.

She’d managed to be spared some of the worst cruelties of this life for years, but even her luck had to run out someday.

Such was the life of a slave.

X

It took two months for the others to understand why Shmi had become hysteric so many nights ago. Their sometimes kind, sometimes pitiful looks were much too late then anyway and Shmi wasn’t sure whether to resent or appreciate them.

“The Master doesn’t know yet,” their elder told her confidentially. “It’s not too late. You don’t have to keep it.”

Shmi knew that, but yet she couldn’t bring herself to consent.

Mine, something cooed. Mine, yours, ours, bright, precious child, so beautiful, keep it, keep him. I will ruin you.

“No,” Shmi heard her own voice say. “I will raise my son.”

The option of various choices, she had learned early on, did not always mean that you were actually allowed to pick.

X

Anakin was born during a sandstorm. It was a long and difficult birth, so painful that Shmi regretted al the choices she hadn’t been able to make. Shmi spent the entire day in fear. She was scared of death, of hating her child of loving him too much, and yet-

Trust me, it breathed like a poisonous lover. He’s a gift, but you have to let go of yourself and trust me, me, me.

Her son’s eyes were the color of the sky, of dying stars and life and it sang in joy. Shmi hadn’t cried in years, crying was a waste of water on Tatooine, but she wouldn’t hold back the tears, just this once.

Change, it chanted. Balance. Freedom.

“Hope,” Shmi whispered and pulled Anakin close to her chest.

X

Nothing and yet everything changed after Anakin’s birth. Unlike most slave children, Anakin never fell sick due to the poor conditions they were living in, nor did any visible injuries stay for long. Only one pain wouldn’t go away, no matter how many hours he rested in the shadows. Anakin suffered from terrible headaches, and it frustrated Shmi how long it took her to find the source of his misery.

“Listen to me,” Shmi told him as another slave got punished and all of them were forced to watch. “Only to me and nobody else.”

Shmi stayed calm and Anakin’s head was clear. Even though he was standing behind her, Shmi felt as if they were lying on their dirty matt together, curled beneath a warm blanket.

I love you, Shmi promised. You’ll be safe with me.

X

Anakin learned much faster than he should and Shmi could see how it worried the other slaves. They helped her keep Anakin’s otherness secret either way, especially when it turned out that his presence benefitted them.

The guards and Masters became less harsh in his presence, left earlier, didn’t ask as many questions and weren’t as suspicious. More slaves stayed alive, stayed healthy and Shmi couldn’t tell them why.

Change, it laughed, amused as if Shmi was an ignorant little insect, precious only for her colors.

Tell me, she begged, but got no reply in return.

And then Anakin began levitating objects, told guards to leave them alone and Shmi could only watch as the men turned around, dazed like they had spent too many hours in the sun.

“He’s Force-sensitive!” A new arrival hissed when they saw Anakin working, his tools flying around his head. They were from one of the Core Worlds but had gotten kidnapped by pirates. “Like those Jedi!”

“This is what it’s called?” Shmi asked and the other person nodded sharply.

Shmi’s fingernails dug into the palms of her hands, not yet drawing blood, but hurting enough to ground her.

Tell me, she demanded this time, furious and protective. Her son, it had said. If Anakin was hers, Shmi had the right to know. Tell me what he is.

Mine, yours, ours, the Force laughed, filled with pride. Half here, half there. More than any of you, less than me. Yours to cherish, love and raise, mine to guide, teach, and become.

Shmi’s throat closed up. The wind was dancing around her legs, she could feel every single grain of sand on her skin, but at the same time she was standing in the other, that part of the universe Anakin was always half-submerged in.

She turned and-

“Mom?” He said, his voice wavering.

He took a step back, or perhaps just pushed her away further into the void. Wings of stained glass engulfed his body, protecting him from seeing the horror on her face, or perhaps keeping her save from him. It was like staring into the sun, seeing colors you could never quite replicate, the feeling of water running over your bruised hands.

For the first time in four years, Shmi could see what this other half of her son was and she had to admit that the Force had been right. Their son was beautiful.

No harm will come to him, Shmi demanded once more as reality warped again. Anakin stared up at her with his beautiful eyes that never seemed human enough. You will keep him safe or I will tear you apart.

Of course, Lucky One, they said, for harming him means harming me.

X

Anakin couldn’t conceal his emotions like Shmi, no matter how much he tried to swallow them. He was too strong for that, too aware. Shmi knew he loved her and would do everything for her, no matter if she’d asked it of him or not.

“Mom,” Anakin said, blue eyes glowing bright like a thousand suns.

Blood was dripping from his legs, his hands, the knife he was holding. “Mom, I can free us.”

Shmi knew better than to be terrified, to show or feel any fear. Anakin’s senses were fine-tuned to the people surrounding him. He had learned how to shield, but his primary defense was still Shmi. She had to be calm. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, to assess the situation. Her child was bleeding but shining with delight, the Force wrapped around him hummed with pride.

“Anakin, what did you do?”

Most of the time, Shmi felt like a single mother, raising her barely human son and keeping the primordial Force guiding him in check. But sometimes the Force took charge and Shmi was horribly out of control.

“I learned how to search for sickness!” The four-year-old proclaimed. “And then I found my transmitter and cut it out.”

Anakin raised his hand and opened it, showing her a small metal piece.

It was his slave transmitter. Shmi knew what they looked like, though she hadn’t been there when they put it in her son.

He was free.

“Yours is here,” Anakin said confidently and put his small hand on her shoulder, smearing blood all over it.

“I can take it out.”

She could be free. It wouldn’t take long, they only needed to burn the blade to cleanse it. Her life was just within reach-

“Not yet,” Shmi decided. “We need a plan first.”

Flames erupted within her mind, Anakin’s anger. It was too easy to get eternally lost in it. She soothed it with the few pleasant memories she had and pulled her son close.

“A few credits, food and shelter,” she told him. “Then we can go.”

Anakin but his cheek and blew a raspberry. “Fine. We have to go though.”

“And where?” Shmi asked.

“Away,” Anakin replied, and rested his head against her shoulder, her lifeline, her shackles. “They’re waiting for me. They’re mine and they need me.”

Shmi could feel the Force grin, wide and happy with razor-sharp teeth.

This, she realized, she wouldn’t be able to deny her child and its guardian. The only option she had was following the two to remind Anakin that he needed to stop and take care of himself.

He might be half there, but he was half here too. Just human enough that the Force alone couldn’t sate him.

X

Anakin took out her transmitter a week later, then those of the other slaves, one by one cutting through flesh to freedom. It should disturb her how fascinated Anakin was by the process. While the other slaves were all crying of happiness, celebrating their freedom, Anakin could hardly be torn away from the sight of life flowing beneath his fingertips. Each night they went to bed, her son acted as if high on spice and yet each morning he returned back to work, determined and focus.

What are you doing to him?

Humans. Pain. Pleasure. Destruction. Healing. Strength, all for us to consume, they sighed wistfully. Let him continue.

They thought of disabling the explosives at first, getting rid of them in the trash, but no matter how far away from instant death they were, they were not yet free, not completely.

Gardulla the Hutt’s palace was a fortress, impossible to conquer from outside. But from within the palace walls, it was almost too easy. Nobody paid too much attention to the slaves who were running through the halls. They weren’t dangerous as none of them were armed.

Anakin hid with the other children, knives and rocks flying above their heads as their only defense. Shmi and the others turned on the explosives, forcefully taking over the building they hadn’t ever been allowed to leave. The hallways were painted in blood, and not one of them died.

You’re so strong, Rich One, the Force praised her. Now take our son where he belongs.

X

They raided the treasury, sharing the wealth equally between them. Slaves weren’t greedy by necessity and so Shmi and Anakin had just the amount they needed to get off Tatooine. Some of the free left with them, others had decided to stay on planet and in the castle.

“We’re gonna take all these bastards out,” the free woman in charge promised, grinning. “We have weapons and money. They won’t see us coming. May the Stars guide you through the night.”

“May the desert hide your tracks,” Shmi replied and squeezed Anakin’s hand.

Her son was already staring ahead, putting the past behind him.

X

Anakin guided them from one planet to the next, picking which ships they should board and leave. They lingered on Naboo a little longer than necessary, enjoying the mild climate and the abundance of water.

“We’re gonna be back,” Anakin said as they watched the planet become smaller and smaller.

Shmi recognized his tone of voice as the one she’d come to understand as significant. She wouldn’t go as far as to call it prophetic, but she knew her son spoke the truth.

“Tell me a story!” Anakin then insisted, four years old still and captivated by the legends their people told each other at night.

X

When they arrived on Coruscant, Anakin hesitated.

“It’s loud,” he said as Shmi picked him up, walking into the direction of the Jedi temple. “And there’s no balance.”

Shmi was fairly sure that those words weren’t enough to explain how the world felt to Anakin, so she tried her best to calm him and keep him isolated from all these foreign signatures. She hoped the Jedi would be able to help them. Anakin’s powers grew by the day and she wasn’t sure how much longer she alone would be enough to contain them.

X

One moment everything was silent, then Obi-Wan’s mind fractured into a thousand impressions. He barely registered his knees hitting the ground, his Master’s worry. The world around Obi-Wan was so loud, seemed to be screaming at him as it tore down his shields. As soon as Obi-Wan had repaired one wall, another broke. No matter how fast he worked, he couldn’t keep up. If he didn’t fix them now, he’d drown, burn, choke on the power that had kept him alive all these years.

“Let him through!” A woman shouted.

Something slammed into Obi-Wan, sent him crashing down to the floor.  He landed flat on his back as someone crawled on top of him. Obi-Wan opened his eyes and saw the future.

On autopilot he wrapped his arms around the child, foreheads touching and-

Anakin, bright one, heart, soul, the warrior, I missed you, mine, mine, mine-

The silence didn’t return, but the chaos stopped as it was taken over by warmth, love, and protectiveness.

“Hello, dear one,” Obi-Wan said, and a weight he hadn’t even noticed carrying for all his life suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

“Been waiting for you,” Anakin cried, tears running over his round cheeks. “For so, so long, it hurt.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m here. I’m never leaving you again.”

Rationally, Obi-Wan knew he shouldn’t make such declarations, but the Force was humming in approval and he wouldn’t take back his words for anything. He belonged right here at Anakin’s side and nobody would tear them apart again.

He could feel the other Jedi in the hall staring at them and Obi-Wan had never cared less. He’d leave it all if necessary

Let them come, they hissed. Let them try. They won’t survive. There will be Balance. There will be you and you are ours.

Mine, Anakin hummed, a thousand eyes fixated on Obi-Wan. Yours. He could feel Anakin’s feathers wrap around him, cutting into his skin like a childish attempt of giving Obi-Wan a part of himself as a gift to strengthen their bond.

Ours, Obi-Wan replied and picked Anakin up, barely feeling any pain from the golden fire-dripping feathers sticking out of his back. His wounds would heal once Anakin learned.

“Master,” Obi-Wan called out to Qui-Gon. “We need to talk to the Council.”

His Master hastened to follow the two of them and Anakin giggled into the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck.

[altanhal]

i am one (but you are a million)

Summary: He lives forever. She lives to die. It’s a cycle he will never get used to as long as Kaguya’s plague beats in his chest.

Alternate Summary: Cursed with immortality, Kakashi serves and protects Sakura in every single one of her lives. She is Kaguya made human, reborn again and again to erase the plague. The same plague that consumes lives to give Kakashi his eternal one.

Rating: T

T/W: Major Character Death/s

Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Haruno Sakura, Hatake Kakashi/Haruno Sakura, Haruno Sakura & Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Haruno Sakura, Hatake Kakashi, Uzumaki Naruto, Ootsuki Kaguya

Additonal Tags: Alternate Universe – Reincarnation, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Friendship, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Partially Completed, Work In Progress

Also on AO3 and FF.net.

Excerpt: 

She's thirteen, only thirteen when she remembers her short lives and his same face.

She's the first of her seven lives that remember.

He hears her laugh at the cruelty of their fate. 

A/N: This is inspired by Caius and Yeul's (from FFXIII-2) Guardian/Ward relationship where Caius is immortal and protects the Yeul reincarnations. I added some vague FFXV lore too. This is tagged as complete even though it's open ended. I plan to extend this but I don't know how I'll end this yet. I have a vague idea of how but I still can't form it in my head. Thank you for reading!

First

He is a warrior first, a man second.

For a plague had killed his wife right after he married her. She wasn't the only one inflicted by the disease because only he was left alive in their small village. It was a miracle and a curse. He didn't want to live without her.

But their Goddess had a plan for him it seems; he is alive because of a little girl. She healed him and she did it when she is six, only six. Her name is Sakura, all pink hair and green eyes. He wanted to weep at the sight of her. His wife in a small girl. Kaguya-sama you've blessed us.

But she isn't the same, this he learned. The same face and nothing more.

"I am Sakura. I am the cure." She told him and that's when he knew, she is the healer of not only him, but of this world.

The plague of the stars was the Goddess's lethal dose. The poison she crafted to kill humanity. And she had given him eternal life, her heart beats in his chest. For as long as he is alive, she too will send forth the plague.

"I am Kakashi. My purpose is to protect you until the last of you dies." Because Sakura will succumb to the plague soon, with every person she cures, death shines brighter in her sea glass eyes, consuming her until she is all but alive.

 Second

The second time he meets her she's holding onto the body of a drenched blonde boy. Her shoulders are shaking and she's got fat tears and snot dripping down her chin.

"Sakura?" The name isn't foreign on his tongue even though he's only met her once. Twice now as she seeks his eyes.

"He's dead!" She shrieks and clutches the blonde boy tighter. "I'll kill him!"

It's not the plague that claimed the boy's life. It's murder because he drowned right under another boy's hand.

"I'll be your friend now. Don't cry Sakura." He tries to console her but she doesn't let the blonde boy go.

"I'll kill Sasuke." She says and he shakes his head. Little girls aren't supposed to be murderers.

"How old are you anyway?"

"Nine."

"Only nine?"

She nods and he feels a weight dropping on his chest.

"Four more years." He says plainly.

Before you die again.

 Third

He'd never seen a baby not wailing before.

Someone left a crib on his front door with a hastily written please, they'll kill her on a piece of paper. He peeks in the basket to find that shock of pink tuff and sea glass.

She is a month old, only a month old, and she's the first one he raised. The only one because he knows he'll never have a child as long as Sakura keeps living. The goddess is cruel like that but he accepts their fate nonetheless.

 Fourth

He thinks it doesn't look right when he sees her in a voluminous miko hakama. The head shrine priestess they call her, because she's the best at drawing out the plague from a dying soul.

He doesn't get tired standing watch of her through her days as she heals and heals with a line that is as long as the roads in the village. She gets tired with every passing moon and he knows this because she's nearing that age. Thirteen, only thirteen, wherein she slumps forward on the shrine floors but he catches her before she hits the mahogany that's polished of blood and sickness.

It's the fourth smile he sees on her cold face and never the blur that's always in his eyes in moments like this.

 Fifth

The thing about being immortal was that he stays absolutely the same. But his silver hair is ancient she says. It grows so long he has to tie it into a ponytail. She likes braiding it and he lets her because she's twelve, only twelve. And girls her age are about beauty and small things, so he lets her. She'll die next year after all.

 Sixth

"Sakura, I thought I said no pets."

"Naruto's not a pet!"

"You named it?"

"Naruto. And he's not a pet!"

Sakura stands at four feet and three inches but the set of her shoulders are threatening; he doubts that she's seven, only seven with that stance. He eyes the creature hiding behind her impressive display, and is more surprised of the animal's-boy's-blonde hair and diamond blue eyes than the nine orange tails he's trying desperately to hide.

"Kitsune." He mutters breathlessly, and remembers in vivid detail the drowned blonde boy in her arms.

Is Kaguya sending gifts now?

 Seventh

She's thirteen, only thirteen when she remembers her short lives and his same face.

She's the first of her seven lives that remember.

He hears her laugh at the cruelty of their fate.

 Eighth

She's crying when she gets back to their tiny tree house, forehead and sea glass eyes hidden beneath unevenly cut short hair. He rushes to her side when he sees the small cut on her cheek.

Who dared hurt the healer of this world?

"What happened?" He asks and she sniffles softly to herself.

"Ino said my pink hair is a curse."

You're a gift to this world. "You're not cursed."

"She cut it."

He balls his fist in rage but outwardly, he stays calm. With a sigh, he straightens himself and walks to sit at the table. Grabbing a pair of scissors, he beckons her.

"Come, I'll give you a cute haircut fit for cute six year olds."

She stops crying, her eyes lighting up in that way he knows how he's spoiled this Sakura.

"Cuter than Ino-pig's?"

"The cutest!"

 Ninth

When he meets her he is speechless. Her hair is longer than his. He's been growing his for longer than this Sakura is alive but hers is ridiculously longer. He doesn't understand how it happened because she's four, only four, and he's well over a hundred now.

 Tenth

By the tenth time he meets her, he is convinced that every Sakura is unique but is still the same old soul. That same soul that is tethered to his, driving a knife in his very being between the years of the last death and the next life.

 Eleventh

Oranges are her favorite while tomatoes are her least favorite, this he learns. He wonders if this is a foreshadowing of some sort, of her future lives. He hopes it isn't sour of any sort but he knows each of her lives will inevitably be in that taste one way or another. He could only hope.

 Twelfth

She came to him covered in dirt and blood. Dressed in rags and pink hair a horrible shade of brown and carnation. A group of men came bounding from where she came. Laughing and leering, and there was nothing more he desired than to rip out their eyes and cut each of their fingers off.

He's never murdered for her before but it took a hundred years for him to do so. He left the bodies to rot and gave her his coat and boots.

"How old are you?" He asks this time because this is the first time he's met her older than thirteen, the age she usually dies by the plague.

"Sixteen." Only Sixteen.

Kaguya is teasing him.

 Forty-eighth

He was given three students to teach the arts of the shinobi. A blonde boy, terribly and wonderfully blonde as the rays of sunshine. Another boy with hair the color of the night sky when the moon is neither silver nor red. He teaches them. Far more interested in their little competitions than his third one.

She doesn't fit with either boy but she seems to think that the two of them match, all light and scattered colors of spring and fall. She is twelve, only twelve but she believes she'll be a good shinobi. One who he'll fear one day, she says. It is comical but Kakashi smiles kindly at her. He doesn't believe her. How could he? When all she cares about is her long soft hair of cherry blossoms instead of the smell of blood that's forever stuck on her palms.

She seems to think-this one likes to think, he notes-that love would be her constant strength.

But he knew better.

The day the next clan village raided their small one was the day this Sakura's first friend fell. The blonde boy was the Sun made human. Morning was killed that day and thus, the world was plunged in eternal night.

The dark haired boy was her only friend then. He did not teach nor approach her. He grew tired of her chasing that boy. But he protected her from a distance. He never could protect her from each death because the plague won her over for the forty-eighth time.

 Sixty-second

It seems that with the absence of the sun 26 incarnations ago, the plague became more selfish and hungry. Two thirds of the world had been wiped out already, only two million remain. This Sakura died healing over a million. The most she did in any of her lives combined. And she died at nine, only nine. This Sakura is the one most loved by the people.

 Ninety-ninth

The first time she asks about her past selves, she cuts her long bubblegum hair short of her ears. It's the shortest he's seen her wear her hair and it's a breath of fresh air for his already weary soul.

"Do I always have hair down to my butt?" She is fourteen, only fourteen and he laughs because she's never used the word butt before. This Sakura is one of his favorites-but then again he has ninety-nine favorites.

 One-hundredth

The next death isn't any kinder than the rest.

She's three, only three, born with weak lungs. She had only saved this life's parents when the plague had claimed her for the hundredth time. This was the youngest he'd seen her die.

 216th

Night still reigns, sunlight is yet to return, but under the silver moon, he watches her murder the boy with hair that blends with the night sky. She is fifteen, only fifteen when she does the opposite of why she's always born.

"Just this once." She tells him and promises to heal a hundred the next day in repentance for this sin.

He helps her bury the body, shoveling dirt on the boy's pretty face. The warmth of something long forgotten caresses the skin of his forehead when he finishes with the crime. The sun rises from the horizon as she grins at him through the blood on her face.

"It's done. It's finally done." She says and he looks at her curiously. "Sasuke killed Naruto. I sacrificed him to appease Minato the Sun God."

 330th

His hair has gotten longer than his whole length. It feels like being reborn when she offered to cut it all off. He thinks that this must be how Sakura feels when her soul restarts at age one, always one. But despite the lack of weight on his head, he knows he'll never truly get the one in his ribs off.

 395th

She's back to dying at thirteen again, only thirteen, and he's getting tired of seeing her smile on her death bed.

 477th

"Kakashi. How old are you now?"

"I don't know. How old are you?"

"Come on, Kakashi."

"Twenty-three."

"Six thousand then."

"I had silver hair since the day of my birth, excuse you."

"I remember."

"What?"

"I remember it. The first time I met you."

". . .you were six."

"Yes, and it's been 5,977 years."

"Good at math, congratulations!"

"Whatever. That means I'm 5,983 years old."

He scoffs. "You're eleven, only eleven."

 501st

He's lost count how many times he's seen her cry when she couldn't save a soul from the plague. Although it is a hundred thousand times less than how many she heals, she grieves nonetheless.

 627th

She tried to braid his hair again, this time though, he refuses. She's seventeen, only seventeen and she is a child in his eyes even with the way her waist dips only to swell to a very inviting hip. He must keep her away from him, keep his hands to himself.

 783rd

He hates how she's growing up and dying at seventeen now. Though he never fails to meet her at eleven, only eleven.

 888th

She promises to marry him one day and she said this on the precipice of death. Promises him this one last thing, but he couldn't answer because if in the next life she doesn't remember about this, then he can't hold her to her promise. She's seven, only seven after all and seven year old girls are not supposed to get married yet.

 959th

"Why do you always say that?" She asks, looking straight at him.

"Say what?"

"I'm only whatever age I was." She furrows her brows at him. Pink and slender arching on a forehead too big but she's beautiful still.

He sighs, shaking his head, refusing to meet her gaze. Because you're always too young.

 1000th

He doesn't say it out loud nor ask what her age is. He can't have her asking the same question again. But despite this, he knows she dies at seventeen in this life.

And never fails to do so in the next lives.

 1,287th

This Sakura is different, he could feel it. She's still fluffy haired and chubby cheeked but there's something absolutely different about her.

"What do I look like to you?" She asks cheekily and he frowns, refusing to answer. "Hey, Kakashi."

He ignores her in favor of staring at the diamond on her forehead. It's new. He's never seen it on her before. It must be some kind of sigil that she's wearing to appease the people who believe she's some sort of goddess in the body of a child. She's the 1,287th rebirth and he's inclined to believe it.

"Tell me, 'Kashi." This Sakura has given him a nickname.

He's amused but he doesn't show it.

"You're eight." He tells her as he pokes the diamond roughly.

She glares at him through big sea glass eyes, and it makes him pause, heart sinking in his gut. A child's eyes but it doesn't belong.

It's like seeing through a mirror. The thousands of years he's lived condensed in her eyes on a face of a cherub.

"You're eight." He repeats, breathless and an ache blooming in his chest. "Only eight."

She scoffs at him. "There you go again." She frowns and crosses her little arms on her chest. She notices the look of despair on his immaculate masked face and her own softens into melancholy.

"I'm sorry I ruined this." She says and holds his hand. He doesn't respond, only closes his eyes.

He doesn't want to hear her say it. Not when she looks so young, so young like a rose still without its thorns; so young and enough to be his daughter. He despises himself when he thinks like that.

"I'm eighteen." She says quietly. "Finally eighteen."

Kakashi cries but he doesn't show it. But why do you look eight?

 1,580th

He doesn't understand why she dies at eighteen now. Kaguya's plague beats hard and alive in his chest as a reminder that she will always die. He's too heartbroken to piece the clues together.

 1,999th

If he keeps counting, every death after would just be a passing. Just that, a passing. Because he would look forward to seeing her again and again. But with each last breathe she takes, she keeps in her death bed an infinite percent of his soul.

 2000th

"So, Kakashi. Which is faster? The speed of light or Minato the Flying Thunder God?"

"Hm?"

"You know, the superhero in the new comic book you bought me?"

"Oh, that."

"So, which is it?"

"Naruto."

"Who?"

"Nothing, Sakura-chan!"

 2222th

Tears have dried from his eyes now. He's become hardened with each smile on her last moments. The blur in his eyes has turned to diamonds, hard and yet beautiful still. Exactly what he is, a hard long life with a beauty always slipping between his fingers.

 2650th

He is reminded again that she is not a child when this Sakura walks all over their apartment in nothing but her plain white school girl panties. She doesn't care if he sees because she remembers all the times he's seen her naked when she was under sixteen. There wasn't any kind of desire in his eyes only the exhaustion of seeing her nude and bloodied for the three hundredth or so time.

The red of her blood flashing in his eyes at the memory but this time she sees something different. He looks boldly at her and she doesn't flinch. Removing her last piece of clothing, she stands before him, unashamed.

"Is this the first time you're seeing me?" She asks with a roguish smile and he just stares at her, dark and brooding, piercing yet nervous.

"I've seen you many times."

"But I was just a child."

"Yes you were."

"How old am I now, Kakashi?"

"Twenty."

Sakura cheekily smiles at him, as if she's won a bet against him, and brings her arms to wrap around his neck. She's so close to him that her breathe fans on his chin. Even though she's reached this age in this life she's still much smaller than him. It amuses him. He can feel her breasts pressing onto him and his hands twitch at his sides. Seemingly limp but it's buzzing with restraint.

"I have a favor." She whispers and lifts herself on her toes. The ghost of her lips just a hairsbreadth from his own.

"Hm?" He hums, unable to open his mouth, afraid that the space between them could close with the movement.

She quirks her lips in a lopsided smirk and he has to close his eyes to deny himself this game she has. How could he, an immortal, let her, a mere twenty year old, toy with him? And the truth of his answer is because it's her.

"Kiss me." She says and he trembles, opening his eyes to meet her sea glass. She's so painfully beautiful and it takes him a while before he responds.

He kisses her. Just that gentle tap of a kiss. And then he runs.

The next morning, she dies at 21.

 3000th

He's tired. So tired.

Of watching her, guarding her, standing vigil over her, standing still beside her, protecting her on her death bed. He can stop it. The only way it ends is if the plague in his chest stops beating. He figured it out after all.

He is just so, so tired. But he doesn't want it to end. He'll have her kill him instead of driving that shattered rusty sword of his long dead clan into his heart. He knows she will never. So he lives and she lives. He remembers each life and death. Sometimes she does too but consistently, in every life, she loves him in all forms.

And that's where he never fails; he loves her too.

[grouchyhuman]

I know it isn’t ALL men... but...

....it doesn’t have to be.  I wrote this some time ago, when I was in counseling for depression and anxiety. I didn’t share this with the person I was seeing but getting it down on paper helped me. I don’t hate all men. I don’t hate men, period. Men don’t do shit like this. However I have absolutely no respect for males who engage in and perpetuate the sort of actions you are gonna be reading about. Fuck those fuckers with the vehicles they ride around in. And fuck the fucking females/people who support them. And fuck the society that is fine with half of its population living in fear of the other half. Also, my apologies for the gendered pronouns here. I tried to fix some of them but I really can’t read this again right now.  

Yes, I know that "not all men" are doing awful things to women. There are four men in my life now that are very important to me that I know full well would never mistreat a woman. I'm married to one, I birthed another and the other two are good friends. I am also certain that at least two of those four would kill a man who was caught raping me or my daughter or any other female. Hell, possibly all four of them. I know that two of them wouldn't lose a wink of sleep about that death, either. They would “sleep the sleep of the just.” I don't think it would much bother the others either. So yes, I know the truth of "Not all men."

I also know the reality that enough men do things that entirely TOO MANY women have good reason to not trust the lot of you. I certainly have enough reason to wish ill upon a significant segment of your gender, fellas. And it is very personal. Probably not at YOU, sir, specifically, but in general? Oh, fuck yeah.

    Introduction to bad thing with guys (well, society, really) was the fact that my mother was single. My father paid $100/month in child support so there's that, but my mom raised me. I remember hearing people talk shit about single mothers; now they are talking shit about wanting to ban abortions and talking shit about cutting welfare and generally dumping on single mothers. I never heard anything about how awful men were for getting women pregnant and running off, just how it was HER fault for "getting herself pregnant" and then having to raise that child alone. If men were so fucking superior then why were there so many single mothers? Why were so many women going without child support? Fuck anyone who has talked shit about single parents because you're part of the fucking problem.

    When I was around ten years old I started developing breasts. Ten. That's 4th grade. I remember going over to some couple's house with my grandfather to deliver some clothes and towels and bedding to a family who lost their house in a fire. My grandfather took some stuff in and the old guy (old enough to have grandkids) had come out to "help." While my grandfather was in the house, the old pervert groped my breasts. I remember him saying something supposedly flattering about me being pretty but it was just creepy. He then said "We don't want anyone to know about this, now do we?" I was a child, I agreed just to get him away from me, though he made me feel dirty. He took a box in and I trailed along with another box. His wife offered me a piece of candy when I was inside. I was standing close to my grandfather. I don't know if she knew what her husband was about or not. The pervert said "Take two, You got two hands, don't you?" I knew he was buying me off. I took two anyway.     I never said anything. What would I say or how would I say it? I knew that shit wasn't right, though. I started being wary of old strange guys after that. I became more aware of older dudes LOOKING at me because of what that one male did to me. That isn't an awareness a child should have. Not all men, but it was that one fucking creep. And all those other creeps leering at me as a child.

    Second thing that I remember was my step-father. First and foremost, I LOVE my mother so no shit-talking about her. Fucking NONE. You all can keep your cock-holsters shut. Also my mother died a couple of years ago (surprise Stage 4 cancer) and I am still not over it. I don’t think I ever will be.     My mother was happy with this guy while they were dating. They met sometime when I was in late 5th grade or the summer between 5th and 6th. My mom was a teacher and coached (and won state championships) for the extra pittance they paid her for coaching, which was, of course, less than what the male coaches got. (Yes, another problem I have with the patriarchy). This guy was divorced and his ex-wife had the kids. Divorced dad, nothing to see here, right?     I was SUPER-STOKED when I heard they were getting married. I was gonna have a DAD! He was going to do shit with me and teach me stuff that other dads taught their kids and it was going to be great! He was going to threaten my dates and teach me to work on a car and whatever else dads do with their daughters. Then one day when he and I were hanging out, he said "Give me a kiss." I was like, sure, dads kiss their kids all the time, right? So I went to give him a peck and he turned it into a harder kiss than just a peck on the lips. He quickly backed off and said "it must be something in the air" or some shit like that. I believed him, though it made me a little leery of him. But I forgave it and assumed it was some anomaly. Elementary school kid at that time, remember? The wedding wasn't a huge affair. My mom wasn't much for pomp and circumstance, plus it was her second marriage. (My father married her so she would have his military benefits for prenatal care and delivery but they were divorced after that.)     It was after the wedding that things started to change a little between them. Mom told me later that he courted her one way and married her another, but that was some years after they got divorced. What started for me was ongoing sexual harassment and some occasional mild molestation (he never got me naked, he never stuck his fingers inside me, he never stuck his dick on or in me). He made it QUITE clear that he wanted to fuck me. I was twelve when this full court press started. He would buy me gifts, he would try to get me to watch soft-core porn when my mom wasn't around. He would corner me while I was doing laundry. I'm pretty sure he would creep into my room at night to watch me. He would grab me and try to feel my breasts up. He told me one time, when I was riding with him one winter, that if I was cold he could warm me up. I learned that he felt guilty when I would cry, which I would. I was scared and I knew what he wanted, even if I didn't know the HOW of it.

    I was NAIVE, dear reader. Horribly naive. Naive on a "Bless my little pea-picking heart" level. I didn't tell my mom about what was going on because I thought he made her happy and I could put up with his occasional shit to make sure she was happy. She was always involving me in things she was doing. She'd let me read her book collection and recommend books to me, she and I would sing together. She'd take me shopping for clothes and make really good recommendations, to the point that I about gave up picking clothes because she had really good taste and I always ended liking what she bought for me. I would occasionally get money off of that guy when he would have me count cash for him. I only later figured out that he was doing shady shit on the side and was having me count what he had because he wanted to somehow impress (?) me or convince me to crawl into bed with him. Given that I heard he was upset over losing a bag of corn when it hit the road and burst, I suspect he was moonshining with some other dudes. That or just dealing drugs. Or both. Don't know, don't care.

    The breaking point was when he came into my room one night when I was sixteen. He and mom were sleeping in separate rooms by this time. I woke up and he was pouring chloroform on my pillow. He would drip some, wait a second, drip some, wait a second. I was waking up and thought I was dreaming. (The chemical he got from where he was working, claimed he could sniff it and get rid of headaches. We didn't question him and there wasn’t Google back in them days of Apple IIe computers to check on that.) I sat up and asked him what he was doing. He lunged for me and grabbed me legs as I scurried back on my bed. The light was on behind him. I don't believe he had a stitch of clothing on but I couldn't tell, not between the light and my not having my glasses on. He tried to pull me towards him but I screamed. He stood up, said "Alright alright I'm leaving" and walked out of my room. I grabbed a pair of scissors like a knife and ran to my mom's room upstairs. I told her what had just happened. She stormed downstairs like Baba Yaga and I heard arguing. What I remember is this: Her: What the fuck is going on?!!? Him: I don't know. I feel like I'm going crazy. (I knew it was bullshit because this had been going on a while. I never told her how long it had been happening.) Her: NOT AROUND (my name) YOU'RE NOT! GET OUT!     After a few minutes she came back upstairs where I was in her bed. She was shaking a little. I know she was furious and probably guilty that she didn't have any idea that shit was going on in his head.     I asked her "Are you OK?" and she laughed, the same laugh I have when I am between fury and tears, and said "I should be asking you that." I told her I was fine. We didn't talk about that night until years later. I was safe and secure with her. When I needed her, she was there for me and hell's fury was with her. They got divorced on a one year separation because she didn't want to put me through a trial about his treatment of me. Well, she never told me the reason for the wait, but I wasn't stupid. Naive, yes, but not stupid…not generally anyway. They divorced when I was between my sophomore and junior year in HS, if I recall correctly. That isn't really a date I've ever wanted to celebrate.     Not all men, but it WAS that one.

      Years later, I moved in with a guy and eventually got pregnant because of one instance in bad math in timing my cycles. I could have stayed at home but I was in my early 20's and full of the stupid that comes with that decade. (I absolutely do not miss those years and am sometimes terrified that reincarnation is real and I'll have to go through my teens and 20's again.) He was abusive when he was drinking. He was nicer when he was stoned. We were stupid poor. I had a minimum wage, ~25hrs a week part time job as a cashier at a grocery store and he worked as a painter for a shady guy. We made rent and the bills had a TV. I saw his potential (instead of seeing him) and thought I could help him reach it. Still being naive, though by now it was bordering on being stupid. But I was the idealist then, full of sunshine and rainbows and believing in fairies and spirits and the like. I remember us having an argument and him grabbing me by my neck and throwing me over a coffee table and onto a couch. Another time I was in another room and he threw a glass bowl so that it smashed against a wall near me. One time we were having sex and it started hurting and I asked him to stop but he didn't. I kept asking but he didn't until he climaxed. I was crying and he was strutting around the room. That’s rape, by the way. He did a great job of gaslighting, plus I didn't want to go home so soon after leaving and being an abject failure in making my own way.     After I found out I was pregnant, he suggested we wait a while then he could push me down the outside stairs to our 2nd floor apartment. We didn't want a baby but I thought he was joking. He wasn't, actually, because I had enlisted on a delayed plan because my chosen school wouldn't start again for a number of weeks. By the time I would be able to go through basic, I would be too far along in my pregnancy for the military to allow me in. I couldn't afford an abortion so I got whatever amounts to a release from the service. I guess he was hoping I'd be his meal ticket and that didn't happen. At the pregnancy center I was going to, an official there pulled me off in a room by ourselves and told me that they had a couple willing to adopt and would give me $10,000 for the baby. I really thought about it but I didn't know what sort of people they were. I never met them. They could have been wonderful or they could have been a nightmare. I sometimes wish I had taken them up on the offer as it would have saved my son from the third guy.     Not all men, but it was that one.

    I was humiliated to have to move back home but I did. My mom was with me when I had my son. She doted on him and bought him all kinds of shit. That was awesome. I didn't have a social life because I was a mother. I did get out a few times but always felt guilty for leaving my kid with my family as he was my responsibility. An acquaintance of mine got me to go with her to a martial arts class. The instructor seemed really nice. He let me work around the studio to offset the cost of classes. I was good at the marital art and really enjoyed it. I eventually moved in with him. He was older and didn't mind my son, whom he later adopted. Everything was fine for a while then he started his shit.     I remember he stopped playing chess with me because "You were good enough that you would beat me one day." He slowly started with the abuse. It was mental and emotional. I saw the signs but was thinking that no one would want to date someone as young as I was (23) who had a baby. Yes, I know, it was stupid but I was still starry-eyed and also horribly lacking in self-confidence. We talked about marriage and his occasional hateful comments decreased in frequency. I thought that marriage would help because he wouldn't have to worry about me leaving him. Besides, it wasn't that often and I thought things would get better. Plus he had a good job and his evening side job of teaching as well as another business that I took care of during the day. I never EVER got paid though.     Things didn't get better. He became more abusive to my son, overly punishing him for wrongdoings. I learned later that when I wasn't at the martial arts school he would treat the boy even more harshly, though out of the eye of everyone else. He said my son had delicate sinuses which is why he had a nosebleed one time. If dinner wasn't on time, he'd yell at me or just NOT talk to me at all. Same with bills not being paid on a certain day. I had to get specific brands of foods. I was left with keeping up with the house bills and the business bills while he just strolled around as a bad-ass black belt. Well, he never did any work at the business but he did know everything, even if he didn't. He had a limited amount of stories he'd tell over and over and always had to one-up anything anyone else talked about. Except for my awful periods. (I was later diagnosed with PMDD) He wouldn’t one-up me on those.     One day we met some Mormon missionaries. They were very polite and had a persuasive tale to tell us. We were interested and started taking lessons. It seemed that after each one we would later discuss them and would have questions for the next lesson. And those questions were answered during the course of the lesson. It seemed like some divine sign and we joined the church. And for a WHILE, things went really good. I was convinced that us finding this church was the answer to our problems. Home life got a lot better and there was more peace around the home. It lasted for about a year before the old behaviors started reappearing.     In our maybe 8th year together I got pregnant (birth control fail) and we had a daughter. His behavior calmed again while I was pregnant. He got angry with me for something (probably me being sarcastic because I was fucking tired in my last trimester). We were passing in the narrow hallway and he body checked me with his shoulder so that I stumbled back into the wall. He walked on by and didn't say anything.

    After I had my daughter (he was with me the entire time in labor, honestly concerned about me) and came home, he refused to make me anything to eat so I'd have to get up to do it myself because he was told that I needed to move around. This was two days after I'd pushed out a baby weighing over nine pounds, and after I'd had my tubes tied the day after her birth, and of course, vaginal stitches. I was fucking hurting. I'd have to get the food out the fridge (the church people had showered us with casseroles so we didn't have to cook for over a week) and nuke the food and put the shit away and gimp back to my chair to eat. I was nursing because I could, which was probably a good thing as I'm pretty sure if we were bottle feeding I'd have to do all that crap as well. He rarely helped with her, though. When we were at the business I ran, he'd come get her only when he saw someone pulling up so when they came in, they'd see him with the baby whom he'd bring back to me while he talked business with them. As if I wasn't working it the back or anything. When I had to run the noisy machines, he would refuse to take her home (about 3/4 mile away) or even outside so I'd have to call a friend of ours to come run the noisy machines so I could take her outside.

    The breaking point was about a year and a half after the girl was born. They were going to a tournament and the boy had forgotten his belt (he was fucking eleven years old and I'm pretty sure that he was told to pack all sorts of shit up and not just his stuff). So instead of just going to get the belt or buying one at the tournament, this person loses his fucking mind and hits the kid then grabs him by the hair of his head, shakes him a little and yells into his face "I hate you. I HATE you!" then shoves him away. I stepped between them while holding the girl, terrified that he would hit me and her as well but he didn't. I realized then that his shit was never going to stop and that if I didn't leave then my son and I at least would end up as domestic violence statistics. I called my mom, who would come over every now and then to visit, when Captain Controlling would allow it. She came over when he wasn't around and I loaded up stuff I needed and she took it over to her house. This went on for a week or so until I'd gotten the important things. He went off one day to do I don't care what and she came over, got the three of us and we fucking left.

    Because I ended up with a female attorney that was even less useful than a dry fuck with an oversized, 60 grit sandpaper dildo, I had to allow for joint custody even though I'd kept a journal. He paid child support right on time, though and would buy school supplies if they were needed. He never complained about the cheap child support or providing for the kids but he has only recently admitted that he did wrong by us. I guess that's something, but the apology won't erase the damage.     Oh... yeah, the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. Fuck them. I went to talk to one of the leaders about three years before this crap happened. It was a wonder he didn't just pat me on the head and send me on my way. He didn't take me seriously at all. Then when I'd left the house, I went to talk to the bishop about what was going on. I let him read a couple of entries in my journal. I told him this sort of thing had been going on for several years. That motherfucking piece of shit tells me "You need to forgive him and move back in and make your family whole again." I could not fucking believe I just heard those words come out of his mouth. Was not the Spirit of the Lord supposed to be with him and let him know when truth is being spoken and when someone needed help? I was in fear for my life and that bastard tells me I am wrong for leaving. I spoke with a matriarch in the church and she told me the bishop was right. At that point I was done with the church. DONE. I knew good and well that they were full of shit. Abuse is supposed to be very much against church standards, but apparently it wasn't as important as maintaining the appearance of solid family units.

    I also spoke with my mother's pastor after I'd left. I told him what had been going on and how the religious leaders had responded and he told me that they were right, that I should work on making my family whole.

    For those of you wondering why I didn’t try to fix it? I wasn't the one heaping on the abuse. I wasn't the one refusing to go to counseling or talk to a doctor or anything. I did my best to make that marriage work but one cannot carry something meant to be carried by two.     Oh... did someone say that I broke my marriage vows by getting divorced? Fuck you, too. He broke his marriage vows the minute he spoke with hate intending to hurt, the minute he laid his hands on us in anger. There is nothing loving or honorable about treatment like that. You don't abuse something you cherish.

    So yes, not all men, but it was that one, and the three male religious leaders who didn't care and the bitch who also told me I was wrong for leaving. That right there is one abuser and four assholes enabling the abuse. Plus however many other people who knew and never spoke up.

        I am currently married to an absolutely amazing man who, while he grew up in a physically abusive household, has never ever raised his voice or his hand to me. We each worship the ground that the other walks on. He has been a rock for me. He's one of those who most assuredly is an example of #notallmen.     Yes, guys, I know it's NOT ALL MEN but it was four who had direct influence over me and two other men who could have stepped up but chose instead to sit back on their asses and believe the facade of my last abuser or some religious bullshit over the truth of my own words. It was all those other men who knew my son's adopted father was abusing him and did nothing, who said nothing. It was all those men who knew I was being abused and did nothing, either with my daughter’s father or my son’s. They knew. They saw things and they did nothing.  Not all men do this, but it's enough of your gender that are shitting in the well and poisoning it for every other human that has to drink from it. And it’s women who know this is going on and condemn the abused for trying to leave it. It’s people in power who know and look the other way. It’s anyone who sees these horrible wrongs and doesn’t speak out. To this day hearing male voices raised in anger frightens me. When I see a balding guy with a moustache and glasses, I feel fear. Those males have caused me and people like me to look at every man with suspicion because we have learned that #notallmen can be trusted, that #notallmen are safe to be around and it is foolish to assume any guy is nice. They all are until they aren’t.

[writingwitchly]

A piece of the past

Request: JamesxLily and I would love it to have a bit of Sirius and maybe of lil Harry too. But it’s okay with only Jily too. You keep the plot and everything like you want to, I’ll love it anyway! <3 ~ @jily-live-on aka my wonderful S

Ship: Jily A/N: My first request ever! I’m so happy that it was from you, S!  A/N2: Ok, so, I cried. The writing drove me crazy, didn’t feel too confortable using past tense, so if anybody sees a mistake, please let me know! Hope you all like it! Word count: 1,9k

James Potter was not the kind of guy that gets scared easily.

“Hand me the towel. Quickly!”

He had become an animagus during his teen years, without any adult’s help…

“Faster Pads, this is horrible!”

… because he was friends with a werewolf…

“I can’t- Did you find it?”

“I’m not good at doing things under pressure, Prongs!”

… he had fought against Dark wizards...

“Are you sleeping or what? This is getting out of hands!”

“It’s coming! Resist a bit mo-”

Tunk

… dealt with wicked magical creatures during his time at Hogwarts…

“How am I supposed to do this?”

“I don’t know, mate. Let me have a few seconds to recover, I just tripped over a giant lizard and almost broke my teeth.”

… asked Lily Evans out…

“That’s what happens when you don’t watch your steps. Just throw it away. The towel?”

… at least a hundred times…

“The tow- Stop looking at yourself in that mirror, you self-obsessed idiot!”

“I told you I almost got disfigured, you four-eyed moron!”

… he was brave, a true Gryffindor…

“Hand the bloody towel, Pads. And come help me, I can’t hold it much longer!”

“It’s your fight, don’t- What the hell is that?”

… but some things are bound to destabilize a 21-years-old man.

“That’s called a diaper.”

Under Sirius’ curious look, James tried, for the umpteenth time, to secure Harry in his diaper, with no better result than the previous attempts.

When his wife asked him to look after the baby a couple of hours before, James accepted, considering that he had enough experience, now, to deal with the situation. But apparently, after almost a year of being a father, he was no closer to knowing how to take care of his son than Dumbledore to rejuvenate.

“And how do you know which part is the front and which is the back?”

He also thought that Sirius’ help would make it all easier. His plan was to feed the child, put him to sleep, and then play wizarding chess with his best friend. But then again, it was easier for Nearly Headless Nick to enter the Headless Hunt.

“I guess this is the front. I’m 99% sure. Okay, maybe just 98%. Anyway, Lily’ll be up in no time.”

The real reason that had pushed James to be alone with the baby -- because being with Sirius at that moment was as good as being alone -- was because he wanted Lily to have some rest. The loneliness, the pressure, and the sleepless nights were starting to feel heavy on her shoulders.

“Well, I’m telling you, I’m glad to be single.”

Hurried steps coming from the stairs made the young men look up from the changing table. When they heard a series of loud bangs and disgruntled mumbles, their gazes met in a frightened coordination.

“James Potter! Sirius Black!” The cry, echoing from the living room, belonged to a half-preoccupied, half-enraged Lily.

After losing a rock, paper, scissors battle with Sirius, and taking what was left of his courage with both hands, James stepped in the next room, finding himself to be facing nothing but darkness. Remembering that he had closed the curtains in his effort to put Harry to sleep, he took a few steps toward the window, bumping into a pair of boots on the way.

When the feeble sun rays illuminated the interior of the house again, the young man turned over to look at his wife. Her nap did her good, by what he saw, as she looked more fresh than in the past days. But a rested Lily was also a more high-tempered Lily.

“Yes, darling?” James let out in a shy tone.

“James Fleamont Potter,” she said in a shaky voice, probably because she was trying to hold back her anger. “I take a few hours of peace and leave you in charge, and look at the state of the house!”

For the first time in the afternoon, James shot a glance at his surroundings, and he couldn’t help but understand Lily’s mood: Never, in his life, had he seen a more upside down room. Rests of baby food were spread on the couch; Sirius’ backpack laid open on the floor, its content dispersed here and there; there was a jumble of clothes in the middle of the room; something - feathers? - was showing from under an armchair; a broken vase had released its water and flowers everywhere; the big lizard toy on which Sirius had tripped was sticking his tongue out to James, from the corner where it had been dumped after the attempted disfigurment; an odd looking green substance was hanging from the roof; and Lily was blocked behind a mountain of old books, built by the men earlier in their attempt to stop Harry from climbing the stairs.

When James freed her with a flick of his wand, they were both surprised by a rather outraged ginger cat zooming away from the spot.

“There you were, Nuts! You should have told us that you liked to read so much!” joked the man, but his wife’s serious glance made him quiet again. Apparently, she didn’t believe that trapping the cat under the whole content of the bookshelf was a good idea.

“Do I have to worry about my child, or is he still alive?” asked the woman after a pause.

For a response, a disheveled and totally soaked Sirius got out of the bathroom, holding a pink and chubby mass wrapped in a towel. “Hi, Lily, had a nice rest?”

Answering with just a smile, she approached him to take the babbling baby in her arms.

“How’s baby Harry?” she said in the sweetest voice ever heard from her.

A small hand extricated itself from under the cloth to clumsily caress Lily’s face, ending up pulling her nose.

“Mommy loves you too,” laughed the woman, and then she added, “And as you look like you’re enjoying your time with your Godfather, Mommy is going to have a small talk with Daddy in the kitchen.”

Lily didn’t notice, as she was busy kissing Harry’s feet and laughing with him, the silent conversation between the two men.

“You are not leaving me alone with the monster,” mouthed Sirius.

“I’m going to have a worse time than you,” mouthed back James, pointing at Lily with his head.

“You four-eyed traitor,” said the former with his eyes.

“You self-obsessed coward,” glanced back the latter.

Some fog, a gray garden, an empty street, and a lot of rain: That’s all that James managed to see from the window of the kitchen.

“Quite a depressing scene,” he thought.

Then, his gaze went back to the red-haired woman that was standing in front of the stove, stiring some hot chocolate.

“Now, this is a view,” he said to himself.

With her lose hair and sparkling green eyes, she looked as gorgeous as she did during their Hogwarts years. The shadows under her eyes and the preoccupation that contracted her traits were the only proofs that some time had passed since when they were teenagers without a bigger concern than their Potions marks.

James still couldn’t believe that, finally, Lily Evans -- no, Potter, please -- was his wife. And it had been two years or so since the wedding.

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, recalling the “small talk” she wanted to have, and considering that the sooner it was over, the better.

“Um, darling?”

She turned her head to look at him, apparently lost in her thoughts.

“What did you want to talk about?” the man asked.

An expression of comprehension, soon replaced by a childish grin, relaxed her face.

“Oh, nothing,” she explained, “We’ve been locked in here for almost a year now, but with Harry we barely have time to spend together. I was just taking advantage of Sirius’ presence to be alone with you.”

A rush of deep love toward his wife ran through James’ body, and he moved to hug her, burying his face in her flower-scented, flaming-red hair. For a moment, he wondered whether Harry would have such a strong attraction as him toward redheads, but then he pushed the thought aside: There was just a chance in a million.

Meanwhile, Lily’s hands closed around her husband’s waist, fists clenching the soft wool of his sweater, a Christmas gift by Molly Weasley. She rested her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and synchronizing her breathing with his. Her eyes closed, she silently hoped that Harry would turn out to be like him: a handsome, caring, brave man.

Suddenly, she realized something: What if James and her were not there to raise him? What if something happened to them? With their parents gone and Petunia and Vernon not wanting to come any closer than one mile, she felt no support.

“Don’t worry, darling, we’ll be fine,” she heard, “We love each other, we love Harry, and we have friends that love us. Everything is going to be alright.”

It was as if James had read in her mind.

“Do you promise?” she asked in a frightened, naive tone, very unusual to her.

What are promises in times of war? He didn’t want to lie to her, but he loved her so much. He knew he would do anything to keep her safe. To keep Harry, the fruit of their love, safe.

“I’ll do my best.”

He grabbed her chin and pulled her lips toward his, kissing her as he did during their first date: shyly, but pouring all his adoration into this simple action.

During their embrace, they felt plainly happy, forgetting the chaos that was submerging the world and all the difficulties and miseries that were awaiting outside. They were protected by this force that only the pure hearts can produce: the force of love.

Unfortunately, their moment of quiet couldn’t last long.

“My p- Harry! Harry no! Help!”

With a reluctant smile, James and Lily pulled apart.

“Poor Sirius. Harry can’t even walk properly, and his Padfather is already overcome,” remarked James.

“Imagine when he’ll start to talk,” said Lily dreamily.

“When he’ll go to school for the first time…”

“When he’ll have his first crush…”

“When he’ll be in his teenager crisis…”

“Argh! That leather jacket was new!”

“I guess we better go help him,” whispered Lili.

“Yeah, maybe,” answered James, and after a quick kiss on her cheek, he left the kitchen. “Reinforcements are coming Sirius!”

Remaining alone, Lily smiled to herself: This evening, she would have to bear with three children. Then, she stepped in the next room as well, ready to have a pillow fight or whatever else the guys were preparing.

The next hours went by between jokes and laughter. The photo album was commented -- “Sirius! There are more pictures of you at our wedding than of us!” -- and pictures were taken to fill it. Songs were sung -- “Stop singing, James, you’re frightening Harry!” -- and poems were written -- “What do you mean by ‘roses are red, violets are blue, Lily’s cute but not you’?” -- until the four peacefully fell asleep on the living room couches, wrapped by the silence of the night.

Untouched, on the dining table, stood the two mugs of hot chocolate, which, after all, were not needed by the newlyweds to bring back a piece of their past.

[ithisatanytime]

To be honest im very glad she loves her boyfriend so much, initially i asked about her relationship status and she said it was open, and was very firm about that fact, emphasizing it to the point that it was the only thing leading me to believe she was at all receptive to my advances, of course thats not enough because i was so forward, and i knew she just likely wasnt that into me. but today when i pressed the issue, as i am a horny man and frankly im in a damn hurry, she changed her tune, now he was her soul mate. and you know what nothing could have made me happier. my last serious girlfriend was in a committed relationship but it was on the rocks, in part do to her going off her birth control (i was high test compared to her boyfriend, he had better musculature but prenatal test exposure was lower in the womb as evident by me being 6′2 and having masculinized bone structure in comparison to his.) and losing all attraction to him, also i kind of fucked their shit up by randomly confessing my feelings for her, we had known each other for close to ten years at that point, but i never made my feelings known because she was so fucking hot to me i just never thought of her as a possibility quite frankly, i was fucking SHOCKED to find out she felt exactly the same. this same exact scenario played out for me when i was a young man and i literally forced my girlfriend to go on hormonal birth control, the hormones in birth control literally trick your body into thinking that your pregnant, and pregnant women have different taste in men, they are looking for a provider obviously, their behavior changes dramatically, in part because they lose interest in higher testosterone but good physical genetics mates as they need someone to be their when they raise their baby, typically (naturally) this only lasts for 9 months than the baby comes, if the man who fathered the child is able to weather the emotional shit storm, he will stick with you through anything, and is thus a good potential provider for your offspring, the opposite is true if they met you while on hormonal birth control, as they value you for your provider traits and when they go off the bc their body thinks they are no longer pregnant, hence her looking for a big strong bull (me) too impregnate her.

    she knew this indian guy since they were children, it was fucking obvious they were meant to be together, i hated being responsible for the heartbreak i caused BOTH of them. dude still wanted to be with her after she kicked him out of her life to fuck some drug addicted retard (me) but  heres the thing i am not talking shit about her, they literally cant fucking help it, we are slaves to our hormones. i was very pleased to find out that she was hesitant to go on birth control as it “makes her crazy” i was so glad she brought it up and felt that way, as imagine going over this shit with a potential girlfriend, imagine how well thats going to go over! i have been familiar with hormonal BC’s effects on womens sexual preferences and ability to pair bond since i watched a documentary on the discovery channel about sex with i was 13, i was trying to masturbate, but i learned a lot instead, despite how crazy this sounds, all of this is accepted science and new papers get released about it every couple of years or so, its fucking insane that women arent made aware of this common side effect of birth control, so imagine how fucking conflicted i felt when she was adamant about getting back on birth control, i was 99 percent sure she would fall out of love with me, and at the time , it was insane to me how much she clearly loved me, she promised shed get off birth control as soon as i asked, i pleaded with her, saying that by the time she was on bc for even a couple weeks shed no longer love me or give a fucking shit what i had to say anymore, which seemed RIDICULOUS at the time, but she promised shed go off it as soon as i asked, i knew that would not be the case. within literal days after getting the hormonal IUD put in, she stopped looking at me the same, we started fighting all the time, it was horrible to see, especially for the second time, all men know what i am talking about, when that lok disappears, and of course she didnt get it taken out when i asked, and of course the fighting got worse and worse, who the fuck could stand living with me without loving me, suddenly all the bad shit about me (no job prospects, bad provider) that she had already been aware of for years became an issue, blah blah blah, it wasnt her fault, imagine being forced to live iwth someone who you didnt love, who loved you and stil wanted to fuck you. and of course as the fighting got worse and she slept on the couch, i could no longer sleep, i became obsessively jealous (mate retention strategy caused by testosterone masculinizing the brain) i knew she wasnt cheating on me, there was literally no way, but my guts were twisting and churning every single day, my behavior became increasingly erratic (men behave irrationally as well, in their own way) it all came to a head, after a solid month of the cold shoulder, i had finally landed a job interview to be a car salesmen (i built up a relationship with the neighbor i smoked iwth, and he landed me the job) but the  day before i was set to be interviewed we had a massive fight which i started, because i tried to reason with her (in love men and women arent governed by reason) that she had been giving me the silent treatment for a month and i had been on my best behavior, which i had been, buying her gifts and flowers with the profit sharing check i got from my old job, but she started grabbing her stuff to leave, she wouldnt tell me where she was going and in my irrational state i was sure she was going to fuck an entire football team, an unbelievably searingly painful thought for a man, women literally cant comprehend this as they dont experience jealousy in the same way men do. so i slammed out of the house first into the streets of new york city, huffing and puffing trying to to cry as i pushed past the crowded streets, it was like 4 pm in the middle of queens. i found a bar and sat at the center of the bar, it was pretty empty when i walked in since it was like four o clock in the afternoon. i had 300 hundred dollars in my pocket and i spent it all that very night on beers and shots and whiskey sours, i had never gone to a bar of my own volition before and can count on one hand the amount of times id set foot in a bar, but i had been drinking more than i ever had in my life. the pain of jealousy and losing someone that i sincerely loved, and intended to marry was so intense that i started drinking and basically didnt stop until we were separated (havent really touched the stuff since, i dont really like alcohol) but i was losing the girl i loved, she was supposed to be my wife. i drank like there was no fucking tomorrow, just waiting for her to call me, which she did, but there was no love in her voice, no news on where she was, or who she was with (her girlfriends, studying for an exam) so i hung up and went back to drinking, my bartender was a young women, who may have been pretty i was not paying attention, so much so that when she finished her shift and left the bar, and a young woman sat next to me at the bar and tried to talk to me, she grew angry with me that i didnt realize it was the same bartender, who had been serving me drinks all night, she left in a huff, soon i felt people pressing up against my back as i finished my 20th drink of the day, i was way past my limit, but i was about to lose the girl i loved and become homeless on the streets of new york in my mind, she would never have done that to me, but my “home” had evaporated as soon as i left to new york, and after i lost my job delivering refrigerators he made it pretty clear he didnt want me around. he was not my real dad after all, just another of my mothers boyfriends, its not the same as a biological dad, for as good as he was and as much as he did for me, i was becoming too much, i cant describe the fear of the streets for someone who spent their lives homeless or near homeless is like, its always there. so i drank that way as the NYC bar grew very crowded and noisey, i had picked the hottest socail spot in the city to drown my sorrows,. i would drink until i couldnt feel the pain anymore, go home, puke my guts out, not remember anything and then regroup in the morning after she got home from her boyfriends house, thats a problem for tomorrow me. i was just waiting for her to call me and maybe show me some sign of warmth, some sign of the person i fell in love with. she did call me in fact, i was too drunk and the bar was too loud for me to hear it, i got up to take a piss and only then realized how crowded the bar actually was, people were dancing behind me the whole time and i didnt even realize it, it was packed from wall to wall, as i got up to take my piss, my last five fell out of my pocket onto the ground and i nearly fell over trying ot pick it up, plus the last shot i took i just spilled down my shirt sleeve, it was time to go home. i drunkenly stumbled towards the door the bar was so packed i literally had to raise my arms into the air (this detail will be important for later) as i made my way towards the exit suddenly she appeared in the doorway, i cannot describe to you my relief in this moment, how did she even find me? it was the last clear memory i have from that night, the only other memory i have is foggy, me drunkenly bragging that i could have beat up every dude in the bar and girls were totally trying to fuck me (see? im valuable) as she drove me home, the rest of that night is completely lost to me, i found myself suddenly in our bed, in the morning, i felt more hungover than i had ever been in my life by a factor of ten, i was shaking uncontrollably still half drunk and frightened (if youve never blacked completely out before you cant know what thats like) she informed me that i had pushed her, i was horrified, how could this have happened, and what more could i have been capable of, i didnt have time to process that however as her dad was on his way over from upstate new york, in my half drunk and frightened mind i knew he was coming to fight me, i went into fight or flgiht mode *if your dead comes here i wil lfuck him up!” even i couldnt believe i said that , her father was an unbelievably kind and gentle man, but i was frightened, i was gonna be homeless on the streets of new york, a forgotten man who fell through the cracks in the safety net, and worse i deserved it, my sense of self was shattered, how could i have pushed her? she made the right decision in having her father turn around, and head back to upsate new york. i cried like a fucking baby, how could i have done this? my father was a drunk who beat the shit out of my mother, and i remembered it vividly. i sobbed and sobbed, i had been doing a lot of that, i loved her from the beginning and worse, she had loved me too. i had no way of contextualizing it either, for me it was as if someone had woken me up to inform me that in my sleep i had punched a child, think about that, how do you process it? i had prided myself in never putting my hands on a woman unless she asked first (thats its own story that i will never fucking tell)  i ddint even remember it, like at all, i ddint even remember us fighting, apparently i was barfing and doing somersaults of the bed and shit, as you do when you are blackout drunk. and she had never drank a drop of alcohol or smoked a single weed in her life, she must have been absolutely terrified. i wanted to die, it was over for good. we had made up in a sense, as the reality of the situation set in, we only ever held each other on the first and last night i was in newyork, and both times, you wont believe this but i have to say it because it was so strange, we cuddled face to face while her two cats cuddled each other inbetween us, only the first and last night.

  part of why it was so hard for me, was because i knew i would miss her bitterly for the rest of my life, literally every day until i died, i knew from experience, and she woudl be really upset for a few months maybe and then never think about me again. my only hope was that she got back together with tha tindian boy she grew up with, he fucking cried outside of their apartment, and stil  asked about her when she left him for me, this tore me up, as id been on the other end of that, he loved her better than i did, they were meant to be married but hormonal fucker and jewish sabotage has a combined effect of just fucking women right up, men too but i feel worse for the women. if you fuck a guy you should just stay with them honestly, you will be much happier long term. this started out as one thing, and then turned into something different, as i had been meaning to tell that story for years now. i know it seems like a lot of self pity and to be fair theres a lot of remorse too even to this day, i barely touched a drop of alcohol in the years since, and occasionally it will hit me like a ton of bricks out of the blue and i will excuse myself into my room to cry into the macaroni and cheese i was eating.

[sending-the-message]

Lila by emareil

The baby didn’t cry at all when it was handed to me, it just stared up at me with its wide, blue eyes.

There was noise all around me, the child’s mother was crying, or moaning, but her words burred together into one unintelligible stream of sound that I filtered out. The baby blinked, a fringe of black eyelashes brushed its cheek and I shook my head- in the moment of clarity before the baby’s eyes opened and entranced me again.

The gaze seemed to me, completely aware and oddly complacent- as if the child had trusted itself to me, to my arms. The mother, Angeline- I think her name was reached out for her baby, but I stepped back from her grasp- unkind perhaps, but I couldn’t muster a single ounce of sympathy for the woman writhing before me. I despised her for what she had put the child through.

She would die soon, I imagined- but again, I felt only relief. I checked the baby in my arms, the child was shaking; convulsing- its frantic movements mirrored the mother’s.

The baby was female. Her skin was warm against mine, feverish. I hummed softly and bent down to bring my own eyes level with the mother’s.

“I want my,” The woman hissed at me. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair was matted around her head. Detached, I watched the spit fall from her mouth as she struggled to speak. “I change- I don’t.”

I cut the contemptible woman off. “No.” Compared to her raspy vowels my own voice was pure and unusually forceful.

The baby shook against me; the child had been born addicted to whatever vile substances the mother had forced through her clotted veins. A horrible cruelty, I thought, to subject someone so innocent, so utterly defenseless to torture at the hand of one’s own despicable cravings. I stood up, and fixed the warm cotton blanket around the child.

“You know what the agreement was. I’ve fulfilled my end.” I made my voice soft, for the baby’s sake, but the power was still there. The woman drew away from me, cringing into the filthy ground of her apartment. A beer bottle rolled across the floor as she knocked into it.

“You promised,” The woman tried to raise her head, but gave up. It made a heavy thunking sound as it hit the ground. “I’m not, my life isn’t what...”

I ignored her, and stepped around her prone body towards the door. If she had false hopes, then they were her problems. I didn’t even bother trying to assuage her doubts, she was to weak to do anything, and I had paid her the money she’d asked for anyways.

The mother tried again, “You can’t… You won’t”

“I will.” I told her, allowing an edge of steel to creep into my words. The baby, the little girl was mine now.

I called her Lila, the short form of a traditional name in my mother language- shortened because I didn’t want her ridiculed by the children in her classes. I knew children could be cruel.

She was a beautiful child, special somehow, as if the fates were compensating for the trial of her first days. I never came to regret the adoption, as unorthodox as it was; Lila was my only light in the world.

When I’d brought her home, I’d held her to me, skin to skin against my chest and sang to her until she’d stopped trembling. I couldn’t feed her myself, of course, and I couldn’t bear to get her a wet nurse- to give the job of sustaining my baby to some other woman. Besides, I couldn’t stomach the thought of some alien girl’s bodily fluids coursing through my own child.

I bought her best nourishment money could buy, and I gave her what no one else could; my undivided attention and unconditional love. I had enough money, more then enough, to spend every single second with her. I never tired of my baby, the way other mothers might have. I had lost enough to realize how lucky I was; every moment with Lila was a blessing.

Her mother had had brown eyes, with ugly dilated pupils and bloodshot veins marring the whites of them. The father was unknown- any number of philandering men could have donated half of my baby’s genetic makeup. The doctors had told me that eyes darkened over time- but that was never the case. Four years later, Lila’s eyes were even more stunningly blue, and her hair was dark and wavy against pale cream skin.

The doctors had also said she could face any number of symptoms; from sudden death to attention defects, to delayed and stunted growth to mental retardation. I should have paid less money for their council.

I was my daughter’s guardian, I watched over her, helped her learn, taught her to read and write, and to solve problems and form conclusions. I watched as she played in the bath, and I sang to her every night- protective lullabies against whatever evils the mother may have lashed to her fate.

Lila was gifted, by far the brightest out of all her classmates. Her school was a private one that advertised the best facilities in our city- one with teachers that loved their jobs and a big list of successful alumni. I doubted that it was the facility alone that had produced the fame and fortune of their graduates, but rather, the bar of excessive wealth that gatekept the progeny of the less fortunate.

My own wealth was a huge aid in the world, an untimely inheritance that I had never felt I deserved. I had privileges that the vast majority of society never would- Lila had been legally mine six months before she was even born. She had privileges too. I’d enrolled her in the stupid pedigreed elementary school full of stupid children from ridiculously affluent backgrounds, after all.

But wealth wasn’t everything, because Lila’s biological mother hadn’t had a penny in the world- at least not before she’d met me. Lila’s biological father was, presumably, equally bereft. Still, Lila had had full reading comprehension while most of her classmates struggled to read single words.

Today we sat together on the couch in our home, her head against my chest and her legs tucked up besides me.

“Mama,” Lila had said, reminding me of the first word she’d ever spoken. She hadn’t cried at all as a baby, and she hadn’t babbled, just watched me until she’d been able to model my own words, to call me Mama in a pretty sing-song voice that had sent a thrill of pride through me.

“Yes darling?” I brushed some of her hair away from her face and tried to imagine what she would look like as a grown woman.

“Will you swim with me tonight?”

She’d always loved the water, something that brought me great relief. I missed the beaches and the glittering waters of my home. Although we were far from the beach, I was glad she could still appreciate the pool I’d had built with the house.

I agreed easily and poked her in the side, prompting her to tell me about her day.

We talked about all of her feelings in depth, and she was angry because the children in her class were boring and self absorbed. She was frustrated because the classes moved too slowly for her.

I called the school while I prepared dinner- they would move her up two grades. She was mature enough not to be stunted socially, and the coursework was advanced enough for her.

Lila was twelve when she came home from dance class upset. She never cried, but I could read it in her posture, in the tense way she carried herself and the shallow breaths she pulled in. I poured her a glass of water from the fridge and passed it too her, motioning for her to sit besides me on the couch.

We sat in silence for a while, and I looked at her. She was my proudest accomplishment, my baby, my daughter and my only light in the world. She looked like me now; we both had black hair and strong bone structures. Her face was symmetrical, a product, I thought, of a good childhood. It took the body a great deal of energy to grow symmetrically, and symmetry was an indicator of health and ample resources during the growth periods. She was softer then me, though, a gentler beauty whereas I was regal and harsh. I was proud of that too.

She also danced with an elegance that was unusual amongst her awkward, prepubescent peers. Already, she carried herself with the grace of a young woman, with a quiet confidence that set her apart.

“Do you think Fermat’s principle is prophetic?” She broke my reflective silence.

I didn’t share her love for all things physics, but I kept up with her because I loved our conversations. I furrowed my brow, worried.

“No, and neither do you.”

Her love for the sciences and math’s had never been philosophical in nature; she delighted in the purity and in the fixed properties of physics.

“What’s bothering you?”

Lila was silent a beat longer. “Did you date?”

I laughed now, relieved. Boys bothered everyone.

I had attracted men as a teenager, a lot, and a new suitor every week. My family’s status had been fortunate (perhaps unfortunately) enough to merit undue attention from men older, and far more mature then me- an impressionable child.

“Not at all. Romantic relationships are never worth it.” I said, trying to keep my tone light. Lila looked relieved, she confessed she didn’t share the shallow attractions her friends obsessed over.

I was relieved too, and it flooded my body like an ocean of reassurance. I feared the corrupting influence of teenage boys. Perhaps I was overprotective, but they disgusted me, and I had my own reasons.

It had been my own heart that had brought devastation to my family. Bored with my life, and my duties as an heiress I’d allowed myself to be charmed by the first man to show me sustained attention and had abandoned my family to be his wife. My father had died soon after- and I hadn’t even made it to his deathbed. Our marriage hadn’t been happy- and we’d both grown idle- as the obscenely rich did.

Affair after affair had followed, and I- for all of my ambition was nothing but eye candy. In the world of socialites and business magistrates my job was to look pretty. I had stood calmly by, smiling graciously as he charmed a steady stream of women- a thick coat of makeup covering the regular bruises that had painted my throat black.

When he’d died, I had been relieved beyond words but hideously angry, with only my sisters left as family. Eventually I had abandoned them too- and wandered, lost, until I’d found Lila- or the woman carrying her.

Family. I rarely thought of it now; therapy sessions with the most qualified professionals I could find would do that- but Lila’s words had reminded me of the past I tried so hard to forget. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant I could keep her.

Boys brought my daughter more trouble, and one day I left a conference abruptly to join her principal, an ugly teenage boy and his insufferable parents in a school office.

“Lila bit Bennett’s hand.” The principal’s voice was long suffering, and he gestured to the boy who was cradling a hand wrapped in white gauze.

I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, who was glaring at the boy, her wide blue eyes awash with fury. I could feel the tension in the room, in the harsh anger emanating from my daughter and the duplicitous pain the boy was trying to project.

“Why?” I asked, and I could hear the fury in my voice. The boys parents looked smug, they though I was angry with my daughter. Lila, however, was vindicated- I was her cavalry- and I could never be mad with her.

“She claims he touched her breast.” The principal said, in his stupid, long-suffering voice, as if he dealt with claims of sexual assault daily. Lila met my eyes, and the anger simmering below the surface erupted into a point of white-hot fury. I hummed under my breath, a low sonorous note to try and calm myself. It didn’t work.

I was reserved, but terrifying in my defence of my child, and the boy’s parent’s cried. The boy’s name was Bennett; it was a stupid name that his idiot parents modeled in their equally idiot behaviour. The father told me, “Wait now a minute,” and the mother covered her mouth and wiped at her eyes. Lila didn’t cry, because I’d raised her to be strong.

The principal apologized to me personally, I wouldn’t sue the school, and Lila’s tuition would be free this year- as if the money was ever an issue. The boy changed schools and Lila took a long, long shower to wash off the feeling of his hand on her.

After, I taught her to fight, and we practiced the movements under the big window of the living room. She was a natural, years of dance brought the movements effortlessly to her, and she was sinuously graceful where I could only ever be harsh and brutal. Our legs made susurrus sounds as we sparred, and I taught her what to do if a man ever laid an unwanted hand on her again.

Lila’s classmates enjoyed social media, and she did too. She had always been popular, because she was beautiful, and because some twisted property of society made that a desirable trait.

She threw a party for her sixteenth birthday, and we strung fairy lights around the yard, and waterproof lights inside of the pool so that it glowed at night. It was a rather unearthly blue colour and Lila loved it; it reminded me of her eyes. I taught her the melodies of my favourite songs as we prepared, and she picked up the notes with ease.

They took lots of pictures at her party, these groups of giggling, tittering teenagers. Lila had never looked so separate from them- they were still insecure and they preened like a flock of birds. My daughter was effortlessly confident, poised and lovely. She spent most of her time in the water, whirling in circles and laughing as she splashed her friends. I remember teaching her to swim, just days after she was born.

I didn’t like Lila’s friends, they reminded me too much of the women I’d known growing up. Superficial, vain, and outer beauty only barely concealing horrific nasty streaks- women could be unassumingly dangerous, the undertow beneath a calm surface.

Later, as Lila and I looked at the photos her friends posted online, she confessed she only threw a party for their enjoyment. She would have preferred doing something with me- I promised her we’d go cliff climbing or swimming together as a treat later. She smiled hugely. Altruism, I suppose was a fine quality.

Lila’s biological mother finds us a month later; I should have been more vigilant with the online posts. It never occurred to me that she would survive the birth.

Her eyes are sunken and hollow, she’s disgustingly thin and I make a conscious note to clean the carpets she stands on. Or to have them cleaned, I don’t want to touch them.

“I want my baby back.” The woman says, coughing weakly into her sweatshirt.

Lila stays behind me, this woman means nothing to both of us.

“That’s my Abigail!” The woman insists, stumbling forwards. She’s bleeding from both arms from where she climbed through a hole she’d smashed in our window. Her arms are bruised from decades of drug abuse, and I am reminded of Lila’s first days of life, and the pain my daughter had endured. I meet Lila’s eyes for reassurance, and I am furious as well, I will protect my daughter to whatever end.

“You promised me a better life!” Spit sprays from her mouth, and the drugs in her system egg her on, making her feral. “My life is shit, I deserve my baby back! GIVE ME MY BABY!” She screeches, and makes a grab for my daughter.

I force the woman, screaming, from my house, and the police are called to remove her. It doesn’t take much from them to believe my story.

Legally, Lila is my biological daughter, and this woman is a crazy drug addict who vandalized my property. The mother is also unconscious now, which probably lends a significant amount of credibility to my story. That and Lila is almost my spitting image. Her father is out of the picture too, which helps. I’d found his records years ago; he’d stumbled in front of a truck with a blood alcohol level high enough to kill him anyway. Good riddance.

Despite the damage to my property, I don’t regret a second of Lila’s adoption. I couldn’t have gotten pregnant if I’d tried, and I couldn’t have endured it anyways. I was an undocumented citizen- or at least a falsely documented one.

Lila’s biological mother had been younger then Lila was now when she’d fallen pregnant with my child. It was an unorthodox exchange, but with my funds, it was entirely convenient. It was also the best choice I’d ever made, even if accepting a street girl’s proposition of money for a child had been legally grey.

Besides, Lila had always been special.

Lila’s graduation marks the end of our need for this country. She has learned all of the math and science I couldn’t teach her, and I feel obligated to leave.

For the first time my daughter disagrees with me, she wants to stay and learn more about the world, about the laws that govern the universe. I think a portion of her insatiable quest for knowledge stems from her inability to understand herself.

Still, I suppose knowledge is as worthy a pursuit as any, so I agree easily and fund the tuition for whatever university she wants to study within. I listen eagerly as she tells me about everything she’s learning, although most of it escapes me.

Her biological mother contacts me again, this time through mail following an incessant stream of online attempts. She wants more money. I ignore the messages.

Lila finishes university with honours, I have never been prouder. She also finishes university without a romantic attachment; something which pleases me too.

She is away from me more, and I’ve been having nightmares. It’s been many years, but I fear for Lila’s safety. I sing to her every night, although she’s old enough now to sing for herself.

I think she intends to learn even more, to absorb every ounce of knowledge available before we leave. It seems foolish to me, but she is resolute. She needs to know enough to continue her studies in another country.

I acquiesce, of course, and I pay for her courses. We still have as much time as she wants, and I can hardly blame her for being anxious about leaving what she knows.

My sister visits me while Lila is away; she wants me to come back home- to bring Lila with me. I disagree, it is still unsafe for her, and for me- my family will not be so quick to forgive me. My sister tells me they already have.

The second time the biological mother finds us, Lila is grown herself - and we are planning on leaving for my home country soon, leaving the bleak grey of this city for sunny Mediterranean seas and salty ocean breezes.

The mother is stronger now too, and I can tell the drugs are free from her veins. Still, she is mad. Mad perhaps with the dreams I’d sang to her still carving a path through her skull. Mad because the paradises I’d promised her in return for her complacency would never come to fruition, and because she had no other option save for this frenzied pilgrimage. I pitied her.

“I only want my baby!” She shrieks at me, she had climbed the backyard fence and she stood across from us on the pool deck.

I could see the insanity within her eyes, dark, hollow pits consumed by the glimpses of heaven I’d afforded her. I imagine she saw my daughter as a way to go back to the girl she was, before she had seen exactly how much she was missing, and how much she could never have. False promises were an exquisite torture. I hummed beneath my breath, but the woman was screaming so loudly I doubted she could hear it. Lila hid behind me, terrified.

“I want my fucking baby back! Give me my life back!” The mother shrieks again, deranged, tears brimming in her eyes. “You did this to me! You took my life away from me!”

She gasps, spine jerking, and eyes roving madly. She fixes her gaze on something I can’t see and laughs- a chilling sound, although I am unmoved. “All I see is perfection.” She laughs again, and then screams at me, “It’s not real! NONE OF IT IS REAL.”

I tune her out.

“I need money- I have to,” I turn to face her as she claws at her forehead- I notice streaks of blood covering it. “Please,” her voice is low now, groveling, “You have to help me.”

I turn to face her. “You’ve wasted your life of your own volition.”

“Bitch!” She howls, furious again, “You promised you could make my life better!”

I won’t make any more false promises, “I can’t help you.”

“NO!” The woman cries out, she is beyond reason. I edge towards the door and keep an eye on her out of my peripheral vision, she can hardly stand upright- perhaps the drugs really did help her.

The mother speaks up, this time softly, “So you wont help me.”

“No.” I tell her.

And then something changes, and the mother- biological mother- because the only right she has to my child is a packet of donated genes- shifts. Like a switch has snapped, and I see with horrifying clarity what she was hiding behind her back. It’s too late now for me to convince her otherwise- and I can only accept whatever the fates may bring. Adrenaline courses through me, and I feel the song build up within me- ready.

A few things happen at once, and a bullet tears it’s way towards us, towards my daughter. I fling myself in its path. Lila cries out as the bullet tears through my chest and out my back. I feel it in an odd detached pain; I am consumed with protecting Lila, I barely notice- all I can feel is relief that she is okay.

Lila became my life after I left my sisters and mother behind. She is the heir I raised in my place once we return, destined to take my place as queen. Now, I am furious, my anger is hell-hot and a raging, blistering fire at the though of my daughter being taken from me.

I sing.

My voice is powerful; it protected my daughter from the pain she might have faced, chased the drugs from her veins, and helped shape her into her truest self, but this time it doesn’t nurture.

I shatter the mother’s bones with my song, I sing her skin to putty and I snap her spine-it makes a hollow sound. My song is beautiful- hauntingly ethereal, and I sing dozens of notes at a time in an unearthly concert. Energy crackles around me, and the stone under my feet turns black and cracks. The water in the pool bubbles and steams, and I can feel the strength of my voice reverberating away from me.

The song pours effortlessly from me, my throat contracts around it but the melodies form of their own volition now. Long, bloody ropes of flesh peel from the mother’s arms and legs and her hair snakes across the concrete as I split her skull open with a sickeningly satisfying crack. My song pounds into her like shrapnel and the blood that spurts from her abdomen is vaporized almost instantly. Her screams are piercing, shrill, and they remind me of when I cut my daughter free from her womb after I’d sang the control of her body away from her. I didn’t want to give her the honour of birthing my child.

My song is as brutal and as carnal as I can make it, a stunning cacophony of melody, I will make the mother’s final moments my first slice of retribution for daring to hurt my child. I suppose I am still furious at the pain she’d caused Lila, even if it had allowed me to claim her. I had known my daughter from the second I’d sensed her in this woman’s belly. The mother was only ever the container- although I had underestimated the lengths she would go to see the empty promises I’d bestowed upon her played out. The only thing I regretted about the adoption now, was not seeing her dead.

I rip her limbs brutally from her body, the bone within them leaks out of the end and steams out of the pores- and the appendages incinerate to ash before they touch the ground. Poofs of the dust blow over the mother’s face and paint her black. Blood pools below her and the mother’s strident screaming fades to a harrowing keening and then strangely funny gurgling as I turn her lungs to mush.

Unlike the other’s I’d killed for Lila; various men lured into my house for dinner or convinced to donate blood to suckle my infant daughter, I relish the mother’s pain- even though her death is costing me my life. I would gladly die to protect my child.

With a tremendous force, I sing her soul from her body, and slam it down into the deepest reaches of Hades- now she will enjoy an eternity of torment and pain.

I am a Siren, Lila is the ascendant queen of my people and there is no rival to my song on earth. I could sing armies of men to do my bidding, command an entire nation to sacrifice themselves at my feet- but it is hardly worth it, Siren women have no reason to desire more then they have been given.

A siren woman is a dead woman, usually one drowned- choking on the salt of the sea spray before her vocal chords harden- and before she is sung from the ocean to become a sister.

Lila was different, drowned in her mother’s womb as a defenceless child- but still I could sense her potential. The mother just wanted money at first, only later had she required coercion. She hadn’t known the fetus she protected was a corpse, and she hadn’t cared after she’d heard my song.

Sirensong was a funny thing, and there was a reason those who heard it usually jumped to their deaths. My song had warped the young woman’s mind, possessed her until she was consumed by it. A fatal mistake, as it turned out.

Besides me Lila, my daughter, my Scylla, sings too, but she doesn’t cry because I’ve taught her mastery over water. Her eyes are brilliant, blue and she raises her arms to the sky and the water of the pool rises with her, surrounding her in a glorious whirlpool. I’ve taught her how to fight, and she is practiced as she controls the waves, as she rises up, black hair whipping around her.

I know where she will go, to the our home just as we’d always planned, and I know she will be able to control my sisters just as easily as she controls the water.

I’m proud of my daughter, of my only light in the world, she is monstrous and she is powerful, named for the cliff monster of old that I’d hoped she would take after. She is even more fearsome, and I know she will be safe. She will be Queen as well; her voice will bring a new generation of men to their knees at her feet. She will always have enough to eat.

She is everything I have ever wanted. My life has been long, but I have only been alive for as long as Scylla has. I met death the first time with fear, but this time I can smile as the world around me blurs at the edges- there is nothing else I could ever want. I suppose that I too have been consumed by Sirensong.

I meet Scylla’s eyes, her beautiful blue eyes- just like my own- and she fixes me with her gaze, and I am transfixed just as I was when she was a baby. Her eyes are full of understanding, and this time; trust in all I’ve taught her. She knows she will be okay. Scylla, my daughter blinks and my head clears.

I look at her one last time,

And then

I let go.

…………………….It’s 1925, and my husband stands besides me- or perhaps a little behind me. The ocean is blue, an unearthly colour and I love it.

The musicians are playing, some jazzy upbeat tune- but I let the roar of the waves tune it out and concentrate on the faint strains of music flowing over the water.

“Darling,” My husband says with what I think must be his most charming smile, “you don’t look well.”

His voice breaks my concentration- and already the images flowing through my mind have passed. I can’t look at him anymore- so I look out at the jagged cliffs that line the edge of the island chain we are sailing by.

“Though you always look a vision.”

My husband reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and involuntarily I flinch away. Something cold and sinister flashes beneath his vision- betraying the good-natured half smile he always has playing around his lips.

I look at him through my lashes, and brace my hands against the balcony. He nods as though he approves and takes a deep breath to steady himself. His breath blows hot over my face, and it reeks of alcohol. Illegal- but easily bought, especially for the rich.

Below us, I feel the hum of the ship’s engine as we change course- imperceptibly, but I know we’re headed for the islands. We can’t hear their song over the loud music- but the captain can.

“I was going to take a boat out with the boys and head back the way we came- try and catch a few fish.”

I look at the jagged rocks and to the shore below littered with the wrecks of other ships- although from this far away they look like black smudges.

“No,” I smile up at him, and meet his eyes. I reach a hand to my back and undo the zipper that holds my dress up, and I take in the way his eyes widen as my dress falls softly to the floor around me, with satisfaction. I curl my hand around his cheek and lock the other around his wrist. “Stay.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing. And I smile against his lips as I wrap my body around his- I’ve seen everything I could ever want in the world, a curse and a blessing because I know it will cost my life, and I would rather die then fight it. I resolve to write all I’ve seen down in my room later- so I don’t forget.

Behind us, the rocks inch ever closer and I know that when I drown my husband will drown with me- but only one of us will rise again.

Lila, I’m coming.

I am posting this today, three months after purchasing a house here- in the city, three months and twenty-seven days after leaving my sisters. Today has been an uneventful day- uneventful aside from your biological mother camped out beside the subway station.

I write this, because the Sirensong that drives me is relaxing now- I met you today, and already I am forgetting all that I have seen. I have posted this on hundreds of forums, written notes to you, secured papers in safe deposit boxes. This is a redundancy.

When you find this I imagine I will already be gone from this realm- and I imagine you will be a Queen. Know that I am proud of you, and that Sirensong was not the only thing that drove me to die for you. Rule well, my love.

[saintheartwing]

May the Force Be With You, Part Six

“6:45 express pulling into the station. You’re always on time!” 

Darth Raize smiled as she shook the poofy-but-grey-haired human’s hand. People on Nar Shadaa got their news primarily from fancy news stations that gave the major stories of the day via tele-vid stories. But those dealt with the major news of the day. When it came to more local stories, to the various boroughs of Nar Shadaa, there were smaller stations giving out newspads. You could get one for every single borough...along with a nice meal or snack or drink if you had the right station. 

And Darth Raize always came to the right fleet station. The high-powered hovertrains could get anywhere in the city within a matter of just a few minutes, faster than any hover vehicle. But you did have to put up with lots and lots of people crowded about, it could get ugly...it could SMELL ugly too. But Raize put up with it because at the end of her trip, after going out for an early morning run, she’d always return to the closest station to her and Furiosa’s home…

She’d return to Valentino. 

“Here.” He held up the datapad for her as the snow came down heavy and hard around her. “I made sure the datapads on the West Burough were EXTRA warm, right by the heater. And when I picked them up from the local distributor, I stuffed them under my coat to make them warm.” “You’re good to me, Valentino.” Raize said softly as she smiled back at him. Valentino had a rather big nose, but an even bigger smile, and a beefy, though somewhat tubby, body. 

“Hey, you and your girl cleaned up my neighborhood. Ain’t had a single mugging in three years since you came.” Valentino had insisted. “And you bring me cuisine!” 

“Salmon and capers quiche. You sure this is what you want?” She asked as she took out her little gift for the “newsstand man”. Valentino smiled as he took it.

“Absolutely. My wife Hali will raise hell cuz it raises my cholesterol, but, ah! I will die a happy and fat man.” He chortled. “Wish your daughter Nora luck on her finals for me. I can hardly believe she’s in her third year already.”

Valentino chuckled as he put the quiche away behind his countertop, the snow continuing to fall around him and his stand, and flopping onto Raize’s shoulders, even in her hooded robes. “Ah, the time flies so quickly when its not standing still. Oh, and uh, speaking of flying, I heard about that attempted attack on your tower from that ship. I can’t believe someone had the guts to try that!” He admitted. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s pretty shocking.” Raize admitted. “But we handled it alright.” 

Every day, she’d get a chance to talk to him. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it. 

“So this big monster, from what I heard, he smashed right through the building? How did you subdue it?” 

“Oh, we had to use both of our Jedi mind trick gifts. It wasn’t too difficult, the thing had a brain the size of a cannoli. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday. Furiosa had a touch of the flu, and I had to be there. She gave me the usual insistence. “My head hurts...my tummy hurts...my itty bitty widdle pinkies hurt”. And I just melted. I couldn’t go do patrols or go out on the town when she’s like that.” 

“Ahh, she needs more VITAMINS. You know, my wife could prescribe some, she IS a doctor…”

Valentino was a regular presence in her life. And a beloved one.

“They said the moon almost got blown up when the Mandalorians attacked! Can you believe we fought them off!?” “I know, I know, sometimes I don’t even believe we did it ourselves, it was touch and go. But you know, I want to do something nice for your news stand. You provide a great service to the neighborhood, and I thought you could use a hand rebuilding it, it’s gotten pretty beat up over the past couple of years.” 

Valentino was just always there. Always reliable. A constant. And people need constants in their life. 

“A child is a blessing, I tell you. Nora’s gonna be a mommy, can you believe it! I’M gonna be a grandpa! I hope one day you get blessed yourself. Maybe adopting?” 

“Oh, we’ve thought about it, honestly. It’s a great joy, I’ve heard.” “GREATEST joy, and greatest pain.” 

Then one day she’d noticed something.

“You sure you don’t want some? I can pick out the broccoli if you’d like.” “You’re a very good woman, Ms. Raize. No thank you. Gotta get to work. Don’t want a pink slip for the new year, y’know?” “Okay. But...are you alright? You look...troubled.” 

“...I’m fine, really, Ms. Raize. I’m fine.” 

And then, the next day...he wasn’t there. And the day after that. And the day after THAT. And then…

“Excuse me, where’s Mr. Valentino?” “Who?” 

She put her hands on her hips as she looked at the men who were packing up the news stand, breaking it down, moving it out of the way so that something else, most likely a dumpster, could be put there. The construction workers stared at her. 

“The man who works here. Poofy hair, also grey, big nose, he’s got slightly tanned skin and he’s usually wearing big, thick brown jackets?” “Dunno. He doesn’t work here anymore. His boss contacted our bosses and just told us that he wasn’t here anymore, and if he’s not here managing the thing, it can’t stay here. So they’re packing it up, and deciding if they want to put the thing elsewhere or not.” The lead construction worker said with a shrug, the wolf-esque alien shrugging as he adjusted the cap he wore. “Dunno where he went, Ms. Raize. Not a clue.” 

Furiosa was soon gently patting Raize on the back as the two sat in their penthouse on the couch, Raize slightly kneading over her hands.

“People leave, peanut. It happens. Especially in a big place like Nar Shadaa. There’s always bit players that zip in and out of your life. Some to poke you in the eye and wreck your week and others that are sweeth breaths of fresh air when the city seems to ugly to bear, and then...well, they go!” Furiosa reasoned. “Even endearing little Alderaanean refugees with cute wives and even cuter daughters.” “I don’t know his last name. I don’t even know where he lived. And I wouldn’t even say we were friends necessarily but...he always always there and now he’s NOT…” Raize muttered as she jiggled her leg nervously. “...I want to try and find him.” 

“You couldn’t get anything out of his mind when you tried to read him?” “Nothing, it was all super cloudy. I’m usually very good with being able to tell what’s on someone’s mind thanks to the Force. But there are people who are resistant to it and who don’t even know it. And then there’s people who are immune to it completely.” 

“We HAVE resources. Let’s get a bounty hunter to track him down.” Furiosa offered warmly. “I know just the guy. He comes highly recommended and he has a unique ability that could come in handy. And he has a lot of contacts in the criminal wing of Nar Shadaa that could prove helpful too.”

“Who?”

So it was that a very distinct figure was now interviewing MRS. Valentino. Or rather,  Hali T. Savarr, the wife of Valeninto Savarr, and mother of Nora Savarr. She had lovely locks of hair indeed, sweeping around her face as her daughter held her hand. Both had soft skin, and quiet voices, with cute freckles on their faces as the bounty hunter looked them over, his four-digited paws taking down notes on a notepad he’d brought.

The bounty hunter had a red bandanna that covered the top of his head, it rather resembled an old-fashioned “pirate’s cap” in how it looked. He had yellow eyes, with slightly darker yellow pupils, a diamond-shaped nose with a pink peace symbol necklace hanging down over his sleeveless white t-shirt. He wore red shorts that had white jagged ends at the bottom and a “Wave” of white flowing at the top, a belt of black with a green sonic pattern running through it, and his paws had gems embedded through them, green and glittering, encased in a black circular frame. It was as if someone had punched a hole right through and stuffed the gems in. He had sharp-looking fangs in his mouth, and his feet were balled, as if he could rollerblade around, and though he spoke in a faintly surfer-boy twang…

His eyes indicated he was taking all of this dead serious.

“So he missed your birthday.” He murmured. “And ain’t what your dad does. At all.” He offered quietly.

“No. It isn’t.” Valentino’s daughter admitted. “They were very appreciative, you know. The local police. We waited 24 hours before we called. They asked all the right questions. He had no enemies. Very few friends. No plans to travel. No drugs. No drinking. No vices of any sort. And there was no sign of a struggle and nothing stolen. Then they left, and that was three weeks ago.” 

“I’m certain he’s dead.” His wife murmured. “We just want to bury him. My darling Valentine would never miss our daughter’s birthday. Not ever.”

Frequency reached out, and softly held the women’s hands in his paw. “...I’m gonna do everything I can. You don’t gotta worry about paying me. A REAL good friend is looking into this, okay?”

Unbeknownst to Frequency OR to the Dyad, Kendall was also going to find himself involved in the case, because he happened to end up in the same bar that Frequency would end up in the very next night. Kendall was currently tending to the VERY beaten up bar patrons after a particularly horrible bar fight that had broken out only half an hour ago. The red-haired Logosian sighed, shaking his head back and forth as he leaned down and used a pair of tweezers, caaaaarefully extracting some splinters from a...very personal area.

“My, oh my, you’re lucky there was literally a doctor in the house. Or rather, a trained nurse.” Kendall confessed as he got to work on removing the splinters from the unfortunate Rodian, who whimpered pitifully as the woman who’d struck him “harrumphed”, looking away. Other bar patrons were nursing their own wounds, Kendall having helped to patch them up as he kept plucking the splinters out. “Just hold still, alright?�� “Thanks…” The Rodian muttered. He had various cheek studs in his cheek and he cringed, one eye puffy and swollen as Kendall sighed. He recognized the Rodian, it was the same one who’d come in on the day he’d met Darth Raize. “I appreciate this again, you’re a real swell guy. Especially for a Logosian, they ain’t nice at all to folks like me. You ever in the neighborhood and want a favor, ask me.” 

Kendall nodded, then looked up at the Twi’lek woman.  “Did you happen to see who started the bar fight?” He asked her, the woman having a bad split lip as she pressed an ice pack to it, and a nasty, awful cut across her right arm that he’d applied gauze to. 

“No...I just remember getting a chair to my arm and the wood flying so I lashed out with a chunk of wood I grabbed off the floor.” She muttered. 

“Listen-EEEEGH. T-thanks for...for patching me...patching me up. Seriously. I’m REAL grateful. And again, here’s my card. You ever wanna favor…” The Rodian handed his card to Kendall as Kendall took it, smiling. Frequency took notice of the Rodian walking off towards his very heavily-armored hovercar that had just parked outside the bar...and which had several tough-looking guards inside. 

SNIVVIANS. Mammalian species, protruding jaws, short fangs, thick skin, large snout, big black eyes. And Snivvians were immune to Force influence. You couldn’t influence their minds at ALL, and these looked to be heavily armored types at that. And Frequency wanted to try and avoid making enemies, so an outright assault would be a bad idea. “Crap. How am I gonna chat that Rodian up now?” He wondered aloud. “Major uncool!” 

WHY did he want to talk to that Rodian? Well, Frequency had checked around Valentino’s apartment, and he’d noticed a very faint crack in the ceiling tiles where he lived, right above his bed. Sure enough, inspecting it had revealed...a betting book. Valentino had begun placing bets on races for about three months, EXACTLY when his daughter had been having trouble with paying for medical school. He hadn’t wanted her to drop out, especially not when she was in the middle of finals week!

The question now became “where did he place those bets and with who”? Well, Frequency had made some calls. As a bounty hunter, he did have contacts, but alas, none of them were involved in the racing game. But they knew someone who was, and that was that Rodian, named Karry. 

But Frequency couldn’t approach Karry directly, clearly. Not just because he wouldn’t be able to convince Karry to talk with a bit of...psychic persuasion from one of Frequency’s special tools, but because Frequency had promised to avoid killing or fighting people on a job whenever he could help it. And the Rodian’s guards were NOT going to let some rando speak to their boss. That much was clear. Frequency did TRY to just outright approach Karry at his workshop just in case, going to a place in the seedier districts of the capital, but the guards had turned him away, told him to get lost if he wasn’t interested in making a bet, and at the mere NOTION that they could be BRIBED to let him speak to their boss, they’d gotten out their guns and told him to scram.

Well, if HE couldn’t speak to him…

Perhaps that Logosian could. So Frequency was soon tailing Kendall, and followed him to the hotel room. He knocked on the door, Kendall calling out…

“It’s open. Come in.”

Frequency was surprised, but he walked inside, surprised at how Kendall was currently using his legs to kick the shit out of a training dummy in the middle of the room. The same sort of swift, sweeping strikes, all while murmuring something under his breath...it was a chant, a chant about the Force.

“What’re you doing?” Frequency inquired.

“I could say the same about you, I noticed you were tailing me.” Kendall said. “Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge…”

“What’s with the...kicking and the chanting?” 

“You don’t know about “repeating actions”?” Kendall asked as he finished kicking the training dummy, taking in some long, deep breaths before turning to Frequency. “It’s a set of pre-determined movements in order to maximize concentration. As the saying goes, repetition is the mother of learning and the father of action, which makes it the architect of accomplishment.” Kendall confessed. “It helps me focus, it builds up my lower body strength, and I’m able to really clear my mind. Mr. Solo actually taught me it, its something he picked up when he was young, it helped him with becoming a good shot...also, WOW, he kicks like a horse. Found that out the hard way when we did a training fight with no weapons.” Kendall confessed. “So...what can I help you with? Do you need a doctor on the sly, because I’m a head nurse,  not a doctor.”

“I can’t believe you SAW me. I’m getting sloppy here on Nar Shadaa. Bummer.” Frequency sighed. “Look, I...need a favor, but not a medical one. I know you know that Karry guy, that Rodian who’s a bookie boss for the illegal racing circuit. I wanna ask him some stuff about this guy I was hired to find.” Frequency admitted. “They won’t let ME talk to him, but they may let you, dude. So could ya do me a solid? I’ll owe ya.” 

“Okay.” Kendall remarked, as he held out his hand, shaking Frequency’s paw. It rather felt like he was shaking hands with a big blue teddy bear. “I’ll be happy to help. Tell me what you’d like me to ask Mr. Karry.”

“It’s some stuff about this newsstand owner, Valentino, who went missing. I KNOW he was making bets with Karry. I want to find out on what, how much, that sort of thing. If Karry knows where he went, all the better…” “You’re a bounty hunter, so you know this could end real badly, right?” Kendall asked quietly. “I’ve learned a lot about people working in the free clinic. You may find out something about your lost newsstand owner you really wish you hadn’t. He may not be who you think he is.” “Don’t matter. Dude’s lost, and I got asked to find him.” Kendall was surprised at the earnestness in Frequency’s voice. Despite the rather ridiculous “Surfer Boy” accent, he was so...sincere. “Okay. Write down what you want me to ask.” Kendall said as he went over to the nearby desk, getting out a notepad. “And then you’d better leave before Han and Leia get back. We can talk about what you can do for me later. Sound fair?”

…

…

…

… “He went home.” “What?” 

Kendall stared in confusion at Karry, sitting across from him in his office. 

“He took me for a bundle too. Lucky duck. Hit the big one and took it all the way back to his home planet.” Karry explained with a shrug. “I’m not too surprised. Said he wanted to buy back his old family home after the bank there repossessed it.” 

“Wait, that’s it? Just leaving his wife and pregnant daughter when she’s about to give him a grandchild?” Kendall was confused. He scratched his head, looking at Karry.

“He said it was embarrassing that they didn’t have a proper home and had to squeeze together into a tight apartment. Told me he was going to cash his winnings immediately and head off. That’s the last I saw of him.” Karry insisted. “When they get big winnings, they ALWAYS wanna go buy the biggest stuff they can think of.” 

It sounded reasonable enough, but Kendall, having worked in a doctor’s office for years, had noticed that certain patients had...tells. Ways you could “tell” if they were nervous or lying or afraid. Jiggling legs, bumps popping up on certain parts of the skin, sometimes their faces would turn a different color, or their eyes would flicker off to the left hand side over and over. And for Rodians, it was the glistening of their eyes, as if their very eyeballs were submerged in water and ready to begin dripping onto the floor below. When they were nervous or afraid, you could see their big dark eyes looked glistening, as if wet, and Karry’s was super glistening indeed. 

Kendall SO badly wished he could use the Force to make Karry speak, but...he couldn’t. So he thanked the Rodian and left, heading to an alleyway not far away as Frequency rested on the wall.

“How do you bounty hunters do it?” He asked quietly. “Deal with the...the lies, the inhumanity, the open cruelty? The worst parts of people?”

“Depends on the type of guy ya are. Me…” Frequency held up a pistol, spinning it around before he slunk it right back into its holster in a single smooth motion. “I have my ways. What about you?” Kendall bit his lip. He paced back and forth, thinking long and hard. Then he got an idea. 

“Karry doesn’t know I’ve got a lightsaber.” He remarked. “That I’m training as a Jedi. And the people in Nar Shadaa tend to be...well...they’re kind fo scared of Jedi AND Sith because of what the Dyad have done. Maybe…”

Frequency grinned. “Want me to get you a nice outfit to look the part, bro?” 

Indeed, that was the plan. The next day, Karry was speaking to a few clients in an alleyway, hand reaching out to collect their money as he grinned. “Always a pleasure doing business with-”

Then they heard a familiar PSSSSHHH, and the sound of a lightsaber igniting. They looked behind Karry, gasping in horror. There stood someone with incredibly pale skin, veins slightly popping up on his face, red, unnatural-looking eyes, eyes with faintly sunken-in, blackened sockets that looked as though soot had collected around them. His lips were cracked and pale too, with veins seeping over them, and his head was covered in a dark helm that covered up his hair, the same helm covering most of his face, save for his eyes and mouth. 

“Hello, gentlemen. The Dyad hopes you’re all being...good, law-abiding citizens?” Kendall inquired. 

They all screamed, racing off, Karry gaping at the obvious Sith with the red lightsaber before HE took off running too.

This would not be the first time. Karry was becoming a persona-non-grata over the next few weeks. EVERY time he tried to arrange a business deal, that Sith would appear, casually strolling by, stopping to say hi JUST in the middle of the business deal. Karry couldn’t get a single person to place a bet on any race whatsoever. Again and again and again the Sith kept popping up, always evilly and so CHEERILY smiling at Karry. 

Finally, at the top of a roof, after yet another day of losing business...Karry fell to his knees, slamming his fist into the ground again and again and again. “DAMN IT DAMN IT DAMN IT! You got something to say to me, SAY it!” 

“How does it feel?”

Karry suddenly realized the man was right behind him. And...and it was KENDALL. Kendall was taking off the helm, a holographic guise falling away...but that lightsaber remained. He twirled it a bit as he and Frequency stood together. “You’re a Sith magnet now. Nobody from your world will speak to you. Nobody will look at you. You’re invisible to them. Do you GET what I’m trying to say to you?” “This is about that...that guy who made that bet, isn’t it? Valentino?” Karry asked nervously as Kendall nodded.

“I’ll stop appearing and interfering in your business...if you tell me what really happened.” Kendall said. “Right now.” 

Karry bit his lip, his body shaking, quivering in fear as he gulped. “I...the thing is...he won. He won and I couldn’t cover the bet.” “You couldn’t cover the bet?” “It was a long shot. The LONGEST. He...he BROKE me. But you...you can’t do business broke. I had to pay him. I had to pay out, I tried to get him to ROLL it over, I mean...most guys do! But he gave me a line about how his daughter, the doctor, needed the money, she was going to be giving birth, he needed it badly and he wasn’t going to leave the money with me. I had to pay, and...and the only thing worse than losing your bank is not paying. It ruins your reputation. I had to pay, and...so I...I lied to you. I said he went back to his home, I figured...I figured nobody would miss him. He was just a guy who worked a news stand. Nobody would care…” Karry trailed off. 

Frequency slowly got the pistol he’d shown off to Kendall a little while back out of its holster, but Kendall held his arm out. “You’re going to leave this planet. Tonight.” He said quietly. “You are NOT going to return. But first...you’re going to tell me where he is.”

And so, the next morning, Darth Raize and Furiosa were gently holding the shoulders of Valentino’s wife and daughter, as his wife quietly cried, all of them looking down into the depths of a large lake on the outskirts of the capital. “...it looks so cold down there. He...he doesn’t like the cold.” Hali murmured as Nora covered her face.

“I’m gonna be right back.” Frequency said as he flexed his shoulder muscles a bit, doing a pinwheel-esque motion before he dove into the water with a loud splash. Raize quietly watched, seeing Frequency’s blue form sinking down, down, out of sight, further into the depths of the lake. He’d trained as lifeguard for years, he was very good at swimming, and holding his breath. It was a good thing too, the lake was indeed cold and dark, a murky abyss that you could barely see anything in, but Frequency could see HIM.

A few fish slowly passed by him as Frequency touched down on the bottom of the lake, and gently knelt down. Valentino Savarr had been wrapped up in an enormous tarp from head to toe, and tied down in chains that were icy to the touch, serving to keep his frame at the bottom of the lake. Some fish had nibbled away at the tarp, thinking it was food, and as a few faint glimmers of sun cast light down from the water’s surface high above, one just barely caught the top of Valentino’s head, and the clear, obvious injury that had caused his death. 

Frequency picked him up, grunting a bit, and then began to undo the chains, swimming up with the form of the newsstand man. He had no intention of telling either of the Dyad how exactly he’d found the man. Not because he owed Kendall anything...him sparing Karry was the favor Kendall had asked for. He wasn’t going to tell the Dyad because he knew they were looking for him, and would kill him the minute they found out where he was hiding out. And somebody that decent...Frequency couldn’t bring himself to sell the Logosian out. 

“...we should say something about Mr. Valentino.” Furiosa offered to Raize as Raize wiped her eyes. “...when we do our weekly address to Nar Shadaa. About...about the ordinary people who can...slip through the cracks.”

“I would like that very much.” Mrs. Hali Savarr murmured as Raize nodded, Frequently gently putting Valentino’s body down, covering his face for the family before he quietly shook all of their hands, and then walked off, his paws in his pockets, just...thinking...about all he’d seen. 

And thinking about speaking to Kendall again.

“Today we mark the unfortunate demise of one Valentino Savarr. We had a reliable bounty hunter associate, Mr. Frequency, track him down after he was murdered and his body hidden in Lake Everclear, to the eastern outskirts of the capital. Some of you may ask why we’re...speaking about a random person who never did anything very “important” in their life. But the thing is, everyone in this city is...they’re not background noise. When one of us vanishes, someone else should notice. Every person is a star. A life. A heart. A voice. And when a voice is silenced by darkness, another must rise to see justice gets done. Valentino is survived by his wife, and his pregnant daughter, who expects to give birth in a few weeks. The funeral service will be attended by my wife and I. We would...very much like if you could come. It’ll be tomorrow at 1:00, in the eldest chapel on Main Street…” 

[iamandco]

  PHOTO: COURTESY GETTY  Known as the Goddess of Pop, Cher has had a successful career in the entertainment industry for the past six decades. Since early on in her career, she has redefined what it means to be an independent woman working hard to succeed in a male-dominated industry.  In a 1996 interview, Cher recounted a conversation with her mother where her mom said “You know sweetheart one day you should settle down and marry a rich man.” And oh so famously, Cher simply responded, “Mom, I am a rich man.”  Those six words still resonate with women today and mean so much in a world where feminism and female equality are at the forefront of social justice issues.  Just recently, Taylor Swift released a music video for her latest single “You Need to Calm Down” where the iconic quote “Mom, I am a rich man” is seen framed on the wall. Swift may have used this moment as a silent response to the sexist questions she receives regarding settling down to start a family as she approaches her thirties. But as Cher would probably agree, a woman’s decision to focus on her career rather than a family should be nobody's business. Swift seems to be doing just fine, with or without a rich man at her side.  Since her acting debut in 1967, Cher has had many roles on the big screen, television, and on the stage. Below, I have picked ten movies from her film career to showcase just how versatile Cher really is.    PHOTO: COURTESY UNIVERSAL PICTURES  “Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again” Released in 2018, the film serves as both a prequel and a sequel to the 2008 movie “Mamma Mia!” because it is told in both present day as well as flashbacks. Following the passing of her mother Donna, Sophie prepares to reopen her mother’s hotel. During the preparation for the grand opening, Sophie learns more about her mother and the similarities that they shared. Parts of the movie are told in flashback and show a young Donna in 1979, travelling through Europe, meeting her beaus Harry, Bill, and Sam and her eventual arrival to the Greek island of Kalokairi.  Cher portrays the character of Ruby Sheridan, Sophie’s estranged grandmother and mother to Donna. Ruby is a sophisticated woman with a taste for the finer things in life. Ruby expresses her desire to build a real relationship with her granddaughter. As the events of the movie unfold, Ruby herself is reunited with an old flame.  You can stream, rent, or buy “Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again” on HBO , iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY SONY PICTURES  “Burlesque” Starring alongside Christina Aguilera, Cher portrays Tess, a retired dancer and owner of a Burlesque club in Los Angeles. Tess struggles to keep the club afloat amid financial issues as well as issues with her talent.  When young and naive Ali moves to L.A., she stumbles into the club and accepts a job as a waitress, despite wanting an opportunity to perform on the stage.  Everyone is surprised by Ali’s talents, especially her voice. Despite this, she must truly prove to Tess that she has the passion to become a Burlesque performer. Amid Ali’s pursuits to become a performer, she also struggles with romantic issues while Tess struggles with greedy businessman eyeing to buy out her club. You can stream, buy, or rent “Burlesque” on Starz , iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY 20TH CENTURY FOX  “Stuck on You” “Stuck on You” was released in 2003 and stars Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear as conjoined twins. They play brothers, Bob and Walt, one extremely shy with an online pen pal and the other an aspiring actor.  When Walt decides to pursue his acting career seriously, he and Bob move to Hollywood, with no plan but a dream.  In Hollywood, Walt lands a starring role opposite Cher, acting as herself, on a prime-time TV show. Cher, upset with her role on a TV show, hopes the project will be cancelled due to the fact that Walt is a conjoined twin, making acting that much harder. However, with the power of movie magic, Walt doesn’t appear as a conjoined twin in the show, which skyrockets to success. As Walt becomes famous, so does Bob.  But life for Bob in Hollywood isn’t perfect. When their physical situation starts to get in the way, the brothers must once again begin discussing the possibility of surgery to permanently separate them once and for all.  You can stream, buy, or rent “Stuck On You” on Starz , iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY GETTY  “Tea With Mussolini” The film is set in the 1930s, and follows the story of Luca, a young Italian boy who is raised by a group of women called the “Scorpioni.” The woman, a mix of British and American women, all live in Florence, Italy and spend their afternoons together, drinking tea.  The events of the film are set both before and during the events of the Second World War.  Cher portrays the character of wealthy American Elsa Morganthal, who sets up a trust fund for Luca when she finds out about the death of his mother.  As the war progresses, Luca’s father decides to send his son to an Austrian boarding school. But Luca eventually returns to Italy, a young man with a passion to study art. Luca becomes extremely close to Elsa and even begins to fall in love with her.  Mary, one of the original “Scorpioni” women to care for Luca, continues to be a mentor for him during a time where his naive and immature actions may cause more harm to the women around him during a war ridden time in their lives.  The backdrop of the war changes the lives of all the “Scorpioni” women as well as sets the tone for Luca’s journey to becoming a man. You can buy or rent “Tea With Mussolini” on iTunes , or Amazon Prime .   PHOTO: COURTESY Matthew Rolston/Hbo/Moving P/REX/Shutterstock  “If These Walls Could Talk” The film, released in 1996 and broadcast by HBO, is told in three different segments. The theme of the film being abortion, follows the story of three different women, during three different time periods, but all of who live in the same house during their respective time.  Cher, directed the third segment and portrayed the character of Dr. Beth Thompson.  The first story is set in 1952 and follows Claire Donnely, portrayed by Demi Moore. Claire is a nurse who must find a way to terminate her pregnancy during a time where abortion was illegal.  The second story, set in 1974, follows Barbara Barrows, a pregnant housewife who already has four children to care for. Barbara struggles with the decision on whether or not to keep her fifth child, having just gone back to college and already struggling to care for her family.  The third story is set in 1996 and tells the story of Christine Cullen, a college student who becomes pregnant after sleeping with her married professor. Christine makes an appointment with Dr. Beth Thompson, but things go wrong fast due to an anti-abortion protest.  Demi Moore, who served as an executive producer for the film was praised for her passion to get the film made, a task that would take seven years.  You can buy “If These Walls Could Talk” on DVD from Amazon .   PHOTO: COURTESY NEW LINE CINEMA  “Faithful”  Margaret, portrayed by Cher, is the perfect housewife with the perfect life. Or so it seems. In actuality, Margaret is actually really unhappy in her marriage to Jack, who she believes is having an affair. Which he later confirms. On their twentieth wedding anniversary, Jack gifts Margaret a diamond necklace, and to her surprise, a hitman.  Tony, the hitman, played by Chazz Palminteri, holds Margaret hostage in her home as he waits for orders to complete the murder. As the two wait, they begin to bond.  Tony begins to get cold feet about killing Margaret the more they spend time together and she begins to reevaluate her life.  As the suspense of when her husband will call in for the job to be completed, Jack’s arrival to the house where Tony and Maragret have been waiting complicates everything.  You can buy “Faithful” on DVD from Amazon .   PHOTO: COURTESY GETTY  “Mermaids” The film stars Cher as Rachel Flax, mother to fifteen year old Charlotte, portrayed by Winona Ryder, and nine year old Kate, portrayed by Christina Ricci. Rachel has a complicated relationship with her eldest daughter, who calls her Mrs. Flax.  Rachel also has a horrible relationship with men and is used to moving her family from town to town when her relationships end. The movie starts with Rachel moving her family to a small Massachusetts town after another failed relationship.  Charlotte is tired of her mom’s actions and often feels like she's the parental figure in the household, not her mother. She plans to become a nun in the future and practices the Catholic faith, despite her mother’s constant reminder that they are Jewish.  Charlotte’s life becomes even more complicated when she begins to fall in love with an older man who works for the local church, leading her to believe that her thoughts and actions are sins.  Rachel decides it’s time to move her family to a new town, but events will lead the family to reevaluate what they want and need in life moving forward.  You can buy or rent “Mermaids” on iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY SHUTTERSTOCK  “Moonstruck”  Released in 1987, the film stars Cher and Nicholas Cage. Cher portrayed Loretta, a widowed 37 year old Italian American, living with her family in Brooklyn Heights, New York.  Loretta is in a relationship with Johnny, who proposes to her before travelling to Sicily to be with his dying mother. While he is away, Loretta begins to fall in love with his younger brother, Ronny, who is portrayed by Nicholas Cage.  Ronny and Johnny have a complicated relationship and despite Loretta being engaged, Ronny has no problem pursuing his brother's girl.  “Moonstruck” was nominated for six Oscar’s at the 60th Academy Awards, with Cher receiving the award for “Best Actress.”  You can stream, buy or rent “Moonstruck” on Starz , iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY WARNER BROS.  “The Witches of Eastwick” Starring Cher, Susan Surandon, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Jack Nicholson, “The Witches of Eastwick” tells the story of three women who become seduced by a mysterious stranger who arrives in their small town of Eastwick, Rhode Island.  Alexandra, Jane, and Sukie have become widowed, divorced, and abandoned by their husbands. They have become lonely and often dream of the perfect man walking into their lives.  Unknown to them, they are all witches, and when a mysterious man, Daryl Van Horne, comes into town, he helps the women tap into their powers while seducing them all at the same time.  Daryl will turn out to be more evil than the women could have imagined and turns their lives upside down, even leading the women to become social outcasts among the town.  The film holds a 74 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes and is described as “A wickedly funny tale of three witches and their duel with the Devil, fueled by some delicious fantasy and arch comedic performances.”  You can buy or rent “The Witches of Eastwick” on iTunes , Amazon Prime , or Vudu .   PHOTO: COURTESY UNIVERSAL PICTURES  “Mask” “Mask” is a 1985 biographical film that was based on the real life and early death of Roy L. “Rocky” Dennis, who suffered from an extremely rare disorder that caused him to have a disfigured and extremely enlarged head and face.  Rocky was portrayed by Eric Stoltz and his mother, Rusty Dennis, was portrayed by Cher.  Despite his physical deformity, Rocky is intelligent and outgoing. His mother, Rusty, wants nothing more than for him to live a normal life and attend school, like any other kid his age.  Rocky had always been accepted by his mother, and even their biker gang family. At school, Rocky quickly wins over his peers, making friends, becoming a tutor and camp counselor, and even falling in love.  Through her portrayal of Rusty Dennis, Cher received the 1985 Cannes Film Festival award for Best Actress.  You can buy or rent “Mask” on Amazon Prime . *** Today, Cher continues her career in the entertainment industry. At 72 years old, she is no where near slowing down.  Over the years, Cher has held three Las Vegas residencies. With the third one ending on September 1st, 2019.  Through her many roles in the industry, she has won many awards, including but not only: A Grammy, an Emmy, an Academy Award, and three Golden Globes. She has transcended and become one of the best selling musical artists in history.  In 2018, via social media, Cher announced she is working on new projects, including a Christmas album, an autobiography, and a biographical film about her life. 

[usnewsaggregator-blog]

Amid dialogue of service and sacrifice, how one general remembered his fallen

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Amid dialogue of service and sacrifice, how one general remembered his fallen

The death of four American soldiers in Niger this month has prompted an important national dialogue about service and sacrifice.

I have seen that sacrifice up close for many years covering conflict around the world. For me, one of the best and most vivid examples of the respect that these heroes and their families deserve came in 2004.

The commanding general of the 1st Cavalry Division at the time, Gen. Peter Chiarelli, lost 168 soldiers under his command during that violent year in Iraq. It ripped his heart out.

As he prepared to fly back to Ft. Hood, Texas, for a memorial service honoring the fallen, he sat in his Baghdad headquarters reading through an inch-thick stack of index cards. Each card had the name of a soldier who was lost, along with the names of the surviving family members.

Chiarelli wept as he read the cards, memorizing the names on each one.

I wrote about this memory in my book, “The Long Road Home.”

“The thought of not recognizing a mother or a spouse or a child who’d lost a loved one sickened him. He thought of his own wife and the three children they had raised together. If my child had been killed, I would expect his commander to know me, and to know how my son or daughter had died, Chiarelli thought. If it were my child, I wouldn’t care much that there were 167 others. For me, there would be only one loss that really mattered.”

As the country continues to discuss the Oct. 4 events in Niger, I encourage us all to remember those who have made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the values the United States holds so dear, and those families who will forever live with the loss.

The complete epilogue, which recounts Chiarelli’s story, is below. I urge you to read it and watch the upcoming National Geographic Channel miniseries based on “The Long Road Home,” which begins Nov. 7.

DEEP INTO A LUKEWARM February night in 2005, Major General Peter Chiarelli sat behind the sagging piles of sandbags that fortified his Baghdad headquarters, staring at an inch-thick stack of index cards. The commander of the First Cavalry Division was only weeks away from the end of his year in Iraq, but the cards he was holding took him back to the beginning, to those first bloody days of April 2004.

Months earlier, Chiarelli had moved from the large tent where he’d lived and worked when he first arrived in Iraq; his new headquarters was inside a long row of buildings near the ornate Baghdad “water palaces” used by Saddam Hussein. The former Iraqi president, captured several months prior to the arrival of the First Cav, now sat alone in a prison cell within the same compound, surrounded by First Cavalry soldiers.

Chiarelli’s own office bore no markings of war. A huge mahogany desk and conference table, shipped to Iraq aboard a military cargo plane, dominated the room. Computers and phones lined the desk, along with a cupful of candy for visitors. An American flag hung on the wall, and a half-empty box of Chiarelli’s beloved cigars sat on a table underneath. It could have been the office of a patriotic executive in Cleveland. Only the fifty-four-year-old general himself, seated behind his desk long after midnight, provided clues that this was a combat zone. After a day in the field, a layer of dust covered Chiarelli’s desert fatigues; a 9mm pistol hung from his shoulder holster; mud filled the crevices of his knee-high tanker boots. And then there were the index cards he held before him.

Chiarelli had asked his aide to prepare the cards, and he’d begun to put in extra hours memorizing the information they held. But now he was struggling. Though it had been a wrenching year full of pain and loss and heartache, he now realized he was still not prepared for the emotional wallop these cards delivered.

Each bore the name of a soldier. These men and women had come to Iraq thinking they would be part of a reconstruction mission, and had been sent back home in flag-draped coffins. Typed beneath each name were a few words about how the soldier had died and what family members were left behind. The fallen soldiers were all husbands or wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters. Many had been killed by an enemy they probably never saw.

Generals don’t like to cry. But Chiarelli, a charismatic and physically imposing officer, had found himself crying often during his deployment. As he read the names of his fallen soldiers now, his eyes grew moist and his back stiffened. He had attended every memorial service in Iraq, save for one when his helicopter broke down and he couldn’t get there in time. He wept on each occasion; this night was no different.

The cards for the soldiers killed on that first night of battle were at the top of the stack. Not since Vietnam had the First Cavalry suffered so many casualties in a single day. Number one was the card for Sergeant Eddie Chen, the first soldier shot that night. Next came the cards for specialists Stephen Hiller, Ahmed Cason, Robert Arsiaga, and Israel Garza. There were cards, too, for Corporal Forest Jostes and Specialist Casey Sheehan, who died within a few hours of each other; and for Mike Mitchell from the tank division.

For Chiarelli, that Sunday night in April had been the most difficult of the war. The families back in the States had been devastated by the losses, especially because they came so soon after their loved ones had left home.

Chiarelli had been in constant touch with his wife, Beth, who had helped care for the families. Like his soldiers in Iraq, the spouses at Fort Hood bonded together in tragedy. But those painful first days for the families and the soldiers were followed by many more. Chiarelli’s First Cav soldiers had fought for eighty straight days to retake Sadr City. That fight was followed by another violent surge in August in Najaf, which brought on another sixty days of combat. And then there were the daily IEDs, the improvised explosive devices that killed more soldiers than anything else in Iraq.

The violence that began with the ambush of Lieutenant Shane Aguero’s platoon claimed the lives of 168 soldiers from the First Cavalry Division over the course of the yearlong deployment and left about 1,900 wounded. By historical standards, the casualty toll was not so high. During the seven years the First Cav was deployed in Vietnam, from 1965 to 1972, the division lost more than 5,000 soldiers, with more than 26,000 wounded. More than 19,000 American soldiers died during just six weeks of fighting in the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium in World War II. But for General Chiarelli, the eight U.S. soldiers who died in Sadr City on the night of April 4, 2004, carried momentous significance. He had spent thirty-one years in the army, and until that night no soldier under his command had been killed in combat.

Black Sunday, Chiarelli realized, had marked a turning point for the U.S. military in Iraq. It was the day the war took a horribly unanticipated turn, shifting from a peacekeeping mission into a full-fledged fight against an insurgency. Across the country, facing a new enemy, the United States soon found itself, again and again, in the same position as Aguero’s platoon in that Sadr City alley: ambushed, unprepared, bloodied, and alone. Chiarelli had brought his First Cavalry soldiers to Iraq with the expectation of a reconstruction and stabilization mission, one for which they would be welcomed by the Iraqi people. Instead, they were forced to fight a war to which their combat training did not apply. After Vietnam, the U.S. military had vowed never to wage a counterinsurgency war again—indeed had largely stopped preparing for the possibility. In the year since Chiarelli had arrived in Baghdad, however, he had learned what so many commanders before him learned, and always the hard way: The enemy has a vote.

Chiarelli hadn’t personally known any of the soldiers who died on April 4, though by the end of the year their names were ingrained on his consciousness. It would take some work to learn the stories of the other 160 soldiers he had lost that year as the insurgency took root.

Halfway through the stack, Chiarelli came across the name of Captain Dennis Pintor. Everyone had known Pintor. The 1998 West Point graduate was a superb leader and a gifted athlete. He had been a company commander under Colonel Robert Abrams, and Chiarelli had heard the excruciating details of Pintor’s death from Abrams himself, who had known Pintor since the young officer entered the army and had considered him a friend. Chiarelli recalled how Pintor’s death had brought a replay of some of the horror Abrams had experienced in the Eagle base aid station on April 4, the first time the brigade commander had seen any of his soldiers die.

On the October night in 2004 when a roadside bomb tore through Pintor’s Humvee, Abrams was sitting in his base camp less than a mile away. Abrams had become accustomed to the sounds of war, but this blast was so powerful it shook the thick concrete walls of his headquarters, and he immediately inquired about the blast.

“Sir, it’s bad,” the voice on the radio said. “It’s Dennis.”

Abrams paused. “Dennis?” he barked. “Dennis Pintor?” His eyes filled with such intensity and pain that it was impossible for others in the room to look away. Initially refusing to believe that his friend had been killed, Abrams decided he had to see for himself. Forcing himself to stay calm, he walked quickly to the base medical station where the soldiers had been taken. For the next two hours, inside that trauma center, Abrams saw images that reminded him of the horrors of Black Sunday. The soldier who’d been next to Pintor in the Humvee was lying in pieces. Dead. His legs—boots still on—and his severed arm had been placed next to his body. Another soldier lay nearby, moaning in pain; he would die a day later.

Then he saw what he’d come to see, what he’d dreaded seeing: Pintor’s lifeless remains, his body blown apart.

Dennis was gone.

Pintor’s company had been so devastated by the loss of the three soldiers that night that Chiarelli himself boarded a helicopter and flew down to visit them. Inside a makeshift chapel, the general sat down with eighty young soldiers and talked intimately with them, saying how important their work was, how proud he was of them. Months later, in the stillness of his office, Chiarelli took another look at Pintor’s card:

Survived by wife, Stacy, and four-year-old daughter, Rhea.

All the soldiers in Pintor’s battalion knew about little Rhea. The young captain had used his home video camera to tape a skit for a going-away party for a fellow officer. On the night of the party, Pintor rewound the tape too far, and instead of seeing soldiers hamming it up, the partygoers saw Pintor’s daughter happily collecting Easter eggs.

“There she is, ladies and gentlemen,” Pintor had said, beaming. “Rhea Pintor waving to her daddy!” For a moment, the soldiers watching the video were taken back to their own loved ones.

Chiarelli would have no trouble recalling Stacy and Rhea Pintor. He thought again about some of the others who’d been left behind. Stephen Hiller’s wife, Lesley, and their kids. Eddie Chen’s parents, who thought their son would be attending law school after his stint in the army. Casey Sheehan’s mother, Cindy, who’d become an outspoken antiwar protester in the months after her son’s death and a vocal critic of the First Cavalry Division that Chiarelli led. He didn’t judge her; he’d never lost a child, and he respected her right to grieve the way she wanted to grieve. He hoped to meet her at an upcoming memorial service at Fort Hood, to tell her that her son had died an honorable death, but he doubted she would come.

Chiarelli wanted to meet all the families, to know all the families. The thought of not recognizing a mother or a spouse or a child who’d lost a loved one sickened him. He thought of his own wife and the three children they had raised together. If my child had been killed, I would expect his commander to know me, and to know how my son or daughter had died, Chiarelli thought. If it were my child, I wouldn’t care much that there were 167 others. For me, there would be only one loss that really mattered.

ON APRIL 4, 2006, exactly two years after Black Sunday, Chiarelli stood on the parade ground at Fort Hood, under a clear blue sky, facing the families of his fallen soldiers and those who had come to honor them. The “Gold Star” families—those who had lost a soldier in Iraq—sat together on folding chairs arranged in neat military rows. It was on this parade ground that many had said goodbye to their departing soldiers for the last time, and it was here that the fortunate ones had welcomed them back home. Behind Chiarelli was a magnificent black granite monument, etched with the names of 168 First Cavalry soldiers who had died in Iraq. In the preceding year, Chiarelli had taken operational command of all U.S. forces in Iraq, but he had returned to Fort Hood this day to dedicate the monument.

The First Cavalry Division band played Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man.” Then it was Chiarelli’s turn to speak. None of us here today will forget the sacrifices of these Americans. Pride is not a powerful enough word to describe how I feel about each of them. We remember them, not only for who they were, but also for what they stood for. They were rooted in duty, love of country and “service to others. We pray that the families will find some measure of peace in knowing that their loved ones represent the very best this country has to offer, and that they lived and died as heroes. We hope their loved ones, the husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, children and friends, will find comfort in knowing we will never forget their sacrifice. I see their young faces in my mind’s eye every day of my life. That will never change.

Lieutenant General Chiarelli met with as many families as he could after the memorial ceremony. Hours later, the general, still thinking of the soldiers’ names on the black granite wall, kissed his wife goodbye, boarded a plane, and headed back to Baghdad.”

Original Article:

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[youbetterworkcovergirl]

2018 Movies Watched

Mayhem

Creep 2

The Vault

Super Dark Times

Haunters

Lady Gaga Five Foot Two

Jumanji: Welcome To The Jungle

Coco

Flatliners (2017)

Madman

Oxygen

Before I Wake

The Lodger

Marshall

Airheads

The Snowman

Rewind This

Big Business

The Crucifixion 

Dinner with Friends

Natural Selection

When A Stranger Calls Back

Hairspray (original)

Geostorm

Return of the Living Dead 3

Empire Records

Heathers

Keep Watching

A Bad Moms Christmas

I, Tonya

Suburbicon

Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure

Only The Brave

Mr. Mom

Girls Against Boys

The Cloverfield Paradox

The Open House

Seed of Chucky

Trick or Treats

#Horror

The Blob (1988)

The Stuff

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

American Satan

Insidious 4: The Last Key

My Friend Dahmer 

Waco

The Ritual

Black Panther

Nothing But Trouble

Deadly Blessing

Dismissed

Manson

Student Bodies

The Silent Scream

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missuori 

The Buttercream Gang

House of Long Shadows

The Babysitters Club

Veronica

The Man Who Invented Christmas

The Shape of Water

So I Married an Axe Murder

Honey We Shrunk Ourselves

The First Wives Club

The Devil’s Arithmetic 

Tom and Huck

Backdraft

The Brady Bunch Movie

Problem Child

Pitch Perfect 3

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Prophet of Evil

Vincent

The Bat

The Comedy of Terrors

Witness To Waco

Echoes in the Darkness

To Catch A Killer

The Haunted

Seduced by Madness

True  Crime

Night of the Creeps

Return of the Living Dead

Love Potion #9

Tragedy Girls

Fallen Angel

Adam: His Story Continues

The True Story: The Amityville Horror

Fatal Charm

The Zodiac Killer

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Terrifier 

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LA 92

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Chopping Mall

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Crawlspace

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Mr. Right

Spice World

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The Big Green

Happily Ever After

Halloween Documentary

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The Strangers: Prey at Night

Poison Ivy II

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Star Trek:Beyond

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More Brains: The Making of Return of the Living Dead

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The Disaster Artist

Embrace the Vampire

Day of the Dead: Bloodline

Wish Upon a Star

Avengers: Infinity War

Stand and Deliver

Sphere

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A Quiet Place

Trust Fund

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The Love Witch

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Hell House LLC

Truth or Dare

Mom and Dad

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Nobody Gets Out Alive

Love, Simon

No One Lives

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Snowbound

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Justice Leauge

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom

Blockers

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House II: The Second Story

Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

Pacific Rim: Uprising

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Amityville 3-D

Monkey Shines

Regression

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The Wave

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Inside

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Playback

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A Horrible Place To Die

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I Spit on Your Grave 2

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Birth of the Living Dead

Shadow of the Vampire

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Nosferatu The Vampyre 

Pieces

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Pumpkinhead 2

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Indecent Proposal

Snow White: A Tale of Terror

Killer Klowns from Outer Space

Harry and the Henderson’s

Bride of Frankenstein

Silent Night

Fahrenheit 451 

Don’t Look Under The Bed

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American Psycho 2

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Howling II

Scary Mary

The Looming Tower

Truth or Dare (2017)

Raising Cain

No Vacancy

Freaks of Nature

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The Rocky Horror Picture Show: Let’s Do The Time Warp Again

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One Day At Horrorland

Casper

Night of the Demons 2

Hayride

I’ve Been Waiting For You

The Haunting of Hill House

The China Syndrome

Ghost Stories

Pyewacket

The Haunting

The Wolfman

Unfriended: The Dark Web

Jason X

Night of the Demons (2009)

Unlikely Angel

Creature from the Black Lagoon

Oujia Origin of Evil

Survival of the Dead

Swamp Thing

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A League of their Own

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Milk Money

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Book Club

ShowBusiness: The Road To Broadway

Dick Tracy

My Brother The Serial Killer

Joe Versus the Volcano

Mother’s Boys

Leap of Faith

Escape from L.A

Kid

P.U.N.K.S

Three Identical Strangers

RBG

Something Wild

Overloard

The Grinch

Fantastic Beasts 2

Office Christmas Party

Like Father Like Son

Harry Potter: A History of Magic

Men At Work

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The Wizard

Son In Law

Crocodile Dundee

Breakdown

Needle

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Searching

A Diva’s Christmas Carol

The Unauthorized Saved by the Bell Story

Toni Braxton: Unbreak My Heart

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Life-Size 2

The Christmas Toy

The Unauthorized Full House Story

After Hours

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Whitney

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Ant-Man and the Wasp

Blood Rage

A Very Claymation Christmas

Claymation Easter

Claymation Comedy of Horrors

The Show

Jingle All The Way

The Road Killers

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Newsies: The Musical

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Patient Zero

[savimauthor-blog]

A sampling story from the Savannah Morgan private Facebook group, Saviland: My World, My Rules. https://www.facebook.com/savannah.morgan.5682

You may share but must keep intact with copyright 

All Rights Reserved Savannah Morgan Author Copyright January 2017 Key Cinaed – Sin-aid Aislinn – As-lynn Jaggor – Yeager Aimlea – Aim-leigha Diarmait – Di-air-a-mate Kyrien – Kearin Prologue A somber, icy grey castle sat ensconced within a copse of bare trees. Limbs swayed, appearing as ghostly sentries against the darkness of the night. A minimum guard, and an impressive stone wall with a fortified iron-gate, was all that provided security to those nestled in their warm beds, inside the dark keep. The late winter moon slipped eerily behind slow moving clouds creating ethereal shadows upon the snow covered ground. Diarmait, youngest of seven, watched the shadows closely; wanting to believe the ramblings of his gravely injured brother to be truth and not the mutterings of a man too injured to know his own delirium.

Cinaed had been returned home for less than a sennight, brought to his family’s keep by a stranger who had all but vanished. Just one of the many mysteries that surrounded his disappearance and return. His body was a testament to the torture he had endured. The bones in his arms and legs had been broken, some crushed beyond repair. His once battle harden body and dark good looks, those things which had assured his people of their safety by a mere glimpse of him, now appeared weakened, dulled, and ruined. Broken and forever damaged. That is where it was not burned, cut to the bone, or so deeply bruised the coloring would never be returned to normal.

The old crone healer, tears swimming in her eyes, had told Diarmait she had no hope his brother would live through the night. The crone readily admitted, she could do no more and immediately left the keep. Was that only this morning, he pondered silently.

Cinaed now lay in the lord’s bedchamber ranting through his delirium of the enemy surely to find him; an enemy that would destroy his people, his home. His attempts to fight the phantom enemy off proved ineffectual in his weakened and broken state. Bones that could be set had been, the deepest of his wounds had been sewn and cool compresses were laid upon his burns, but he would not recover. All knew this and prepared for the death of their beloved knightly lord.

All but Diarmait.

Diarmait watched for his brother’s phantom enemy but waited for the summoned healer, Aurora. Many considered her to be a myth. Those that believed in her said she was a beauty beyond comprehension; a soul as warm and comforting as the dawn of a summer day after a stormy, dangerous night and named for the goddess of the dawn herself, goddess Aurora of the Light. It was widely rumored she laid hands on a child who had been trampled by a team of horses and the child lived without a single blemish or impediment, not even a slight limp.

Myth or devil, or merely a woman with God’s own gift of healing, Diarmait cared not what she was, or whom she served. If she could save Cinaed, he would move Heaven or Hell to bring her to him, Diarmait vowed. Hence his reasoning in sending the keep’s best men at arms to find her: Sir Beauford, Sir Kyrien, Sir Connor and Sir Jaggor.

Beauford had proven himself with his fine sword arm and battle stratagems. Kyrien and Connor, twins, were like having silently communicating sentries at your flanks. Jaggor had been a lifelong friend of Cinaed’s. Jaggor’s loyalty and friendship had earned himself a ranked position in the family as an honored brother. These four men, on a mission of hope and mercy, were to find Aurora and bring her to Greymoore Keep to save the Knightly Lord, Cinaed, or they were to die trying.

Diarmait pondered the possible truths of the latest rumors of the mysterious Aurora. It had been reported she was in the area traveling with two young women. Could this be the sign his brother would heal? The sign he had been looking for? The sign that God had not forsaken his brother, his family or their people; those whom relied upon them for their very lives?

Questions swirled through his mind like the snow upon the wind. Where had Cinaed been? How had he returned home? And why was he in this condition? This horrible condition. Who was the old traveler whom had appeared with him, only to disappear without a trace? Or without answering any of Diarmait’s questions? The questions and the mysteries of it all threatened Diarmait’s very own sanity.

He stopped his pacing and questioning when out of the corner of his eye he noticed Raghnailt, a young Dragon Knight only three weeks into his spurs, walking quickly in his direction. The young man, though boy would be a more apt description, was of medium height, thin and wiry. His mousy brown hair hung in strings down around his face, forever falling over his eyes. Raghnailt came from the land across the sea. Scotia, a freeland, had within the last ten and five years procured freedom by taking up arms against their oppressor after a century of enslavement by the Leader of the Red Dragon Realm.

The Devil Knight himself, Lord Draavin the Bold. The same hell-spawn that now infected these lands, which Diarmait highly suspected in the cause of his brother’s current condition. Try as he might he had obtained not one shred of evidence of its truth, but he knew deep in his soul that none other would have the audacity to perpetuate such a heinous act upon another human being much less that of the beloved Cinaed of Greymoore.

Raghnailt stopped in front of Diarmait bowing slightly at his middle. “My liege,” a title upon hearing made Diarmait cringe, “There is movement to the Southwest. We await your orders.”

Diarmait knew what the movement was. His brother’s men, now reluctantly under his command, though many experienced in battle, knew not what to make of their lord’s current condition. Many had questioned his disappearance as well as his miraculous return when so near death.

They refused to speak of the peasant who had brought the lord home, who stood before them one moment only to vanish within the blink of an eye. Many stated, for their own peace of mind, that the lord Cinaed’s wounds were not as bizarre or severe as was reported; though all knew the truth of it. These brave men, many of whom had stared death in the eye and survived, could not forget the wounds covering Cinaed’s body or how they seemed to worsen at the touch of a healing hand.

Still, they waited, watched, prepared to rely upon the rumors of a woman whom none knew, with any certainty, existed. They each stood their post, eagle-eyes penetrating the wintery night, desperate for a flesh and blood foe to fight, for magic was of the superstitious mind, for the unenlightened and foolish amongst them, who put their faith in rituals and signs, and not in the omnipotent God of this world.

Diarmait stilled his himself before his anger took him over; choosing to nod his acknowledgement of the young knight’s report. “I will take a look for myself, young Raghnailt. Keep watch on the northeast surround.”

Raghnailt stood his new post with determined stubbornness, ignoring the tingling itch in the center of his palms. His stance and cutting glare testament that no one, real or fabled, could mount an assault on his watch.

Diarmait made his way to the southwest facing battlements. His responsibilities and uncertainties weighed heavily upon him in equal measure. This heavy weight, carved deep lines in his youthful soul and face. His spurs clanged against the stone tiling announcing his approach in an almost lyrical fashion in his heavy sway, rolling hip forward walk. The unsettled faces of battle hardened warriors turned as one to acknowledge his approach before quickly returning to their duty scanning the woods that seemed to rustle with a mystical eeriness; inspiring a shiver of fear in these steadfast men.Diarmait said not one word of greeting. He had no tell, of his inner turmoil. He was responsible for these men now, as he was for all in the keep and on the Greemore lands. He turned his face to the woods in the southwest. His midnight blue eyes pierced the darkness like a seasoned predator.

As he suspected the rustling of wildlife. An elongated shadow from the moonlight playing havoc on the taut nerves of these fierce warriors. He allowed the men to reassure themselves when a large black wolf broke through the glade. There was no need to abase these men for their flights of fancy and allowing their fear to run amuck.

Diarmait watched as the wolf raised his regal head, giving a long mournful howl in call to his absent mate.The tension among the men visibly lessened. Diarmait went back to his strolling watch, pondering the mysteries before him.

Several hours later, the moon low in the night sky, Diarmait continued to pace the battlements of the great wall as he waited. Waiting, either for the enemy his brother deliriously spoke was eminent, or the angel, Aurora, summoned to save not only Cinaed but them all.

His wait would not be a long one.